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ON  THE 


SUBLIME  AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER. 

1885. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

Introduction:  On  Taste, - - 3 

Novelty, 23 

Pain  and  Pleasure. 24 

The  Difference  between  the  Removal  of  Pain  and  Posi- 
tive Pleasure,  - 27 

Of  Delight  and  Pleasure  as  Opposed  to  Each  Other  - 28 

Joy  and  Grief,  --------  30 

Of  the  Passions  which  belong  to  Self-Preservation,  - 32 

Of  the  Sublime, 32 

Of  the  Passions  which  belong  to  Society,  33 

The  Final  Cause  of  the  Difference  between  the  Passions 
belonging  to  Self-Preservation,  and  those  which 
regard  the  Society  of  the  Sexes,  - - - - 34 

Of  Beauty, 36 

Society  and  Solitude, - - 37 

Sympathy,  Imitation,  and  Ambition,  38 

Sympathy,  - --  --  --  --  38 

The  Effects  of  Sympathy  in  the  Distresses  of  Others  - 39 

Of  the  Effects  of  Tragedy,  ------  41 

Imitation, 43 

Ambition,  - - 44 

On  the  Passion  Caused  by  the  Sublime,  50 

Terror, - - - - 51 

Obscurity, 52 

Of  the  Difference  between  Clearness  and  Obscurity 

with  regard  to  the  Passions,  -----  53 

Power,  - ---58 

Privation,  - - - - 65 

Vastness, -----  66 

Infinity, - - - 67 

Succession  and  Uniformity,  ------  68 

Magnitude  in  Building, - - 70 

Infinity  in  Pleasing  Objects,  ------  71 

Difficulty, - 72 

Magnificence,  ---------  72 

Light, 74 

Light  in  Building, 76 

Color  Considered  as  Productive  of  the  Sublime,  - 76 

Sound  and  Loudness, 77 

Suddenness, 78 

Intermitting, - 78 

The  Cries  of  Amimals, 79 

Smell  and  Taste:  Bitters  and  Stenches,  80 

Feeling.  Pain,  - 81 

Of  Beauty, 82 

Proportion  not  the  Cause  of  Beauty  in  Vegetables,  - 83 

Proportion  not  the  Cause  of  Beauty  in  Animals,  - - 87 

Proportion  not  the  Cause  of  Beauty  in  the  Human 

Species, 89 

Proportion  further  considered,  -----  95 

Fitness  not  the  Cause  of  Beauty,  -----  98 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

The  Real  Effects  of  Fitness,  ------  ioi 

Perfection  not  the  Cause  of  Beauty,  - 104 

How  far  the  Idea  of  Beauty  may  be  applied  to  the 

Qualities  of  the  Mind, 105 

How  far  the  Idea  of  Beauty  may  be  applied  to  Virtue,  106 

The  real  Cause  of  Beauty.  ------  107 

Beautiful  Objects  Smell,  - - 107 

Smoothness, - 109 

Gradual  Variation,  - - - - - - - - 109 

Delicacy,  - Ill 

Beauty  in  Color, - - - - 112 

The  Physiognomy, 113 

The  Eye, - 114 

Ugliness,  - - 114 

Grace, - - - - 115 

Elegance  and  Speciousness,  ------  115 

The  Beautiful  in  Feeling,  -------  116 

The  Beautiful  in  Sounds, 118 

Taste  and  Smell, ---119 

The  Sublime  and  Beautiful  compared,  ...  120 

Of  the  Efficient  Cause  of  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,  - 122 

Association, 123 

Cause  of  Pain  and  Fear, - 124 

How  the  Sublime  is  produced,  -----  127 

How  Pain  can  be  a Cause  of  Delight,  128 

Exercise  Necessary  for  the  Finer  Organs,  - - - 129 

Why  Things  not  Dangerous  Produce  a Passion  like  Ter- 
ror, ------ 130 

Why  Visual  Objects  of  great  dimensions  are  Sublime,  130 

Unity,  why  Requisite  to  Vastness,  - - - - 132 

The  Artificial  Infinite,  -------  133 

The  Vibrations  must  be  Similar, 134 

The  Effect  of  Succession  in  Visual  Objects  Explained  135 
Locke’s  Opinion  Concerning  Darkness  considered,  - 137 

Darkness  Terrible  in  its  own  Nature,  - 139 

Why  Darkness  is  Terrible,  -------  140 

The  Effects  of  Darkness,  ------  141 

The  Effects  of  Blackness  Moderated,  - - - - 143 

The  Physical  Cause  of  Love,  ------  144 

Why  Smoothness  is  Beautiful, 146 

Sweetness,  its  Nature,  - 147 

Sweetness  Relaxing, - 149 

Variation,  why  Beautiful,  - 151 

Concerning  Smallness,  -------  152 

Of  Color,  ----------  155 

Of  Words,  ----------  157 

The  Common  Effect  of  Poetry,  not  by  Raising  Ideas  of 

Things, 157 

General  Words  before  Ideas,  - - - - - 159 

The  Effect  of  Words,  -------  161 

Examples  that  Words  may  Affect  without  raising 

Images, 162 

Poetry  not  Strictly  an  Imitative  Art,  - - - - 168 

How  Words  Influence  the  Passions,  168 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  AND 
BEAUTIFUL. 


INTRODUCTION. 


ON  TASTf). 

On  a superficial  view,  we  may  seem  to 
differ  very  widely  from  each  other  in  our 
reasonings,  and  no  less  in  our  pleasures:  but 
notwithstanding  this  difference,  which  I 
think  to  be  rather  apparent  than  real,  it  is 
probable  that  the  standard  both  of  reason 
and  taste  is  the  same  in  all  human  creatures. 
For  if  there  were  not  some  principles  of  judg- 
ment as  well  as  of  sentiment  common  to  all 
mankind,  no  hold  could  possibly  be  taken 
either  on  their  reason  or  their  passions,  suffi- 
cient to  maintain  the  ordinary  correspond- 
ence of  life.  It  appears  indeed  to  be  gen- 
erally acknowledged,  that  with  regard  to 
truth  and  falsehood  there  is  something  fixed. 
We  find  people  in  their  disputes  continually 
appealing  to  certain  tests  and  standards, 
which  are  allowed  on  all  sides,  and  are 
supposed  to  be  established  in  our  common 
nature.  But  there  is  not  the  same  obvious 
concurrence  in  any  uniform  or  settled  prin- 
ciples which  relate  to  taste.  It  is  even 
commonly  supposed  that  this  delicate  and 
serial  faculty,  which  seems  too  volatile  to 
endure  even  the  chains  of  a definition,  cannot 
be  properly  tried  by  any  test,  nor  regulated 
by  any  standard.  There  is  so  continual  a 


4 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


call  for  the  exercise  of  the  reasoning  faculty, 
and  it  is  so  much  strengthened  by  perpetual 
contention,  that  certain  maxims  of  right 
reason  seem  to  be  tacitly  settled  amongst  the 
most  ignorant.  The  learned  have  improved 
on  this  rude  science,  and  reduced  those 
maxims  into  a system.  If  taste  has  not  been 
so  happily  cultivated,  it  was  not  that  the 
subject  was  barren,  but  that  the  laborers 
were  few  or  negligent ; for  to  say  the  truth, 
there  are  not  the  same  interesting  motives  to 
impel  us  to  fix  the  one,  which  urge  us  to 
ascertain  the  other.  And  after  all,  if  men 
differ  in  their  opinion  concerning  such  mat- 
ters, their  difference  is  not  attended  with  the 
same  important  consequences;  else  I make 
no  doubt  but  that  the  logic  of  taste,  if  I may 
be  allowed  the  expression,  might  very  possi- 
bly be  as  well  digested,  and  we  might  come  to 
discuss  matters  of  this  nature  with  as  much 
certainty,  as  those  which  seem  more  immedi- 
ately within  the  province  of  mere  reason. 
And  indeed,  it  is  very  necessary,  at  the 
entrance  into  such  an  inquiry  as  our  present, 
to  make  this  point  as  clear  as  possible ; for  if 
taste  has  no  fixed  principles,  if  the  imagina- 
tion is  not  affected  according  to  some  invari- 
able and  certain  laws,  our  labor  is  like  to  be 
employed  to  very  little  purpose;  as  it  must 
be  judged  an  useless,  if  not  an  absurd  under- 
taking, to  lay  down  rules  for  caprice,  and  to 
set  up  for  a legislator  of  whims  and  fancies. 

The  term  taste,  like  all  other  figurative 
terms,  is  not  extremely  accurate;  the  thing 
which  we  understand  by  it,  is  far  from  a 
simple  and  determinate  idea  in  the  minds  of 
most  men,  and  it  is  therefore  liable  to  un- 
certainty and  confusion.  I have  no  great 
opinion  of  a definition,  the  celebrated 
remedy  for  the  cure  of  this  disorder.  For 
when  we  define,  we  seem  in  danger  of  cir- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


5 


cumscribing  nature  within  the  bounds  of  our 
own  notions,  which  we  often  take  up  by 
hazard,  or  embrace  on  trust,  or  form  out  of  a 
limited  and  partial  consideration  of  the 
object  before  us,  instead  of  extending  our 
ideas  to  take  in  all  that  nature  comprehends, 
according  to  her  manner  of  combining.  We 
are  limited  in  our  inquiry  by  the  laws  to 
which  we  have  submitted  at  our  setting  out. 

Circa  vilem  patulumque  morabimur  orbem, 

Unde  pndor  pro ferre  pedem  vetat  aut  operis  lex. 

A definition  may  be  very  exact,  and  yet  go 
but  a very  little  way  towards  informing  us  of 
the  nature  of  the  thing  defined;  but  let  the 
virtue  of  a definition  be  what  it  will,  in  the 
order  of  things,  it  seems  rather  to  follow 
than  to  precede  our  inquiry,  of  which  it 
ought  to  be  considered  as  the  result.  It 
must  be  acknowledged  that  the  methods  of 
disquisition  and  teaching  may  be  sometimes 
different,  and  on  very  good  reason  un- 
doubtedly ; but  for  my  part,  I am  convinced 
that  the  method  of  teaching  which  ap- 
proaches most  nearly  to  the  method  of  inves- 
tigation, is  incomparably  the  best ; since,  not 
content  with  serving  up  a few  barren  and 
lifeless  truths,  it  leads  to  the  stock  on  which 
they  grew ; it  tends  to  set  the  reader  himself 
in  the  track  of  invention,  and  to  direct  him 
into  those  paths  in  which  the  author  has 
made  his  own  discoveries,  if  he  should  be  so 
happy  as  to  have  made  any  that  are  valuable. 

But  to  cut  off  all  pretence  for  cavilling,  I 
mean  by  the  word  Taste  no  more  than  that 
faculty  or  those  faculties  of  the  mind,  which 
are  affected  with,  or  which  form  a judgment 
of,  the  works  of  imagination  and  the  elegant 
arts.  This  is,  I think,  the  most  general  idea 
of  that  word,  and  what  is  the  least  connected 
with  any  particular  theory.  And  my  point 
in  this  inquiry  is,  to  find  whether  there  are 


6 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


any  principles,  on  which  the  imagination  is 
affected,  so  common  to  all,  so  grounded  and 
certain,  as  to  supply  the  means  of  reasoning 
satisfactorily  about  them.  And  such  prin- 
ciples of  taste  I fancy  there  are;  however 
paradoxical  it  may  seem  to  those,  who  on  a 
superficial  view  imagine,  that  there  is  so 
great  a diversity  of  tastes,  both  in  kind  and 
degree,  that  nothing  can  be  more  indetermi- 
nate. 

All  the  natural  powers  in  man,  which  I 
know,  that  are  conversant  about  external 
objects,  are  the  senses;  the  imagination;  and 
the  judgment.  And  first  with  regard  to  the 
senses.  We  do  and  we  must  suppose,  that  as 
the  conformation  of  their  organs  are  nearly 
or  altogether  the  same  in  all  men,  so  the 
manner  of  perceiving  external  objects  is  in 
all  men  the  same,  or  with  little  difference. 
We  are  satisfied  that  what  appears  to  be  light 
to  one  eye,  appears  light  to  another;  that 
what  seems  sweet  to  one  palate,  is  sweet  to 
another ; that  what  is  dark  and  bitter  to  this 
man,  is  likewise  dark  and  bitter  to  that ; and 
we  conclude  in  the  same  manner  of  great  and 
little,  hard  and  soft,  hot  and  cold,  rough  and 
smooth;  and  indeed  of  all  the  natural  qual- 
ities and  affections  of  bodies.  If  we  suffer 
ourselves  to  imagine,  that  their  senses  present 
to  different  men  different  images  of  things, 
this  sceptical  proceeding  will  make  every 
sort  of  reasoning  on  every  subject  vain  and 
frivolous,  even  that  sceptical  reasoning  itself 
which  had  persuaded  us  to  entertain  a doubt 
concerning  the  agreement  of  our  perceptions. 
But  as  there  will  be  little  doubt  that  bodies 
present  similar  images  to  the  whole  species, 
it  must  necessarily  be  allowed,  that  the  pleas- 
ures and  the  pains  which  every  object  excites 
in  one  man,  it  must  raise  in  all  mankind, 
whilst  it  operates,  naturally,  simply,  and  by 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


its  proper  powers  only;  for  if  we  deny  this, 
we  must  imagine  that  the  same  cause  operat- 
ing in  the  same  manner,  and  on  subjects  of 
the  same  kind,  will  produce  different  effects, 
which  would  be  highly  absurd.  Let  us  first 
consider  this  point  in  the  sense  of  taste,  and 
the  rather  as  the  faculty  in  question  has  taken 
its  name  from  that  sense.  All  men  are  agreed 
to  call  vinegar  sour,  honey  sweet,  and  aloes 
bitter;  and  as  they  are  all  agreed  in  finding 
these  qualities  in  those  objects,  they  do  not 
in  the  least  differ  concerning  their  effects 
with  regard  to  pleasure  and  pain.  They  all 
concur  in  calling  sweetness  pleasant,  and 
sourness  and  bitterness  unpleasant.  Here 
there  is  no  diversity  in  their  sentiments ; and 
that  there  is  not,  appears  fully  from  the  con- 
sent of  all  men  in  the  metaphors  which  are 
taken  from  the  sense  of  taste.  A sour  tem- 
per, bitter  expressions,  bitter  curses,  a bitter 
fate,  are  terms  well  and  strongly  understood 
by  all.  And  we  are  altogether  as  well  under- 
stood when'  we  say,  a sweet  disposition,  a 
sweet  person,  a sweet  condition,  and  the  like. 
It  is  confessed,  that  custom  and  some  other 
causes,  have  made  many  deviations  from  the 
natural  pleasures  or  pains  which  belong  to 
these  several  tastes;  but  then  the  power  of 
distinguishing  between  the  natural  and  the 
acquired  relish  remains  to  the  very  last.  A 
man  frequently  comes  to  prefer  the  taste  of 
tobacco  to  that  of  sugar,  and  the  flavor  of 
vinegar  to  that  of  milk ; but  this  makes  no 
confusion  in  tastes,  whilst  he  is  sensible  that 
the  tobacco  and  vinegar  are  not  sweet,  and 
whilst  he  knows  that  habit  alone  has  recon- 
ciled his  palate  to  these  alien  pleasures.  Even 
with  such  a person  we  may  speak,  and  with 
sufficient  precision,  concerning  tastes.  But 
should  any  man  be  found  who  declares,  that 
fo  him  tobacco  has  a taste  like  sugar,  and 


8 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


that  he  cannot  distinguish  between  milk  and 
vinegar;  or  that  tobacco  and  vinegar  are 
sweet,  milk  bitter,  and  sugar  sour;  we  im- 
mediately conclude  that  the  organs  of  this 
man  are  out  of  order,  and  that  his  palate  is 
utterly  vitiated.  We  are  as  far  from  confer- 
ring with  such  a person  upon  tastes,  as  from 
reasoning  concerning  the  relations  of  quantity 
with  one  who  should  deny  that  all  the  parts 
together  were  equal  to  the  whole.  We  do 
not  call  a man  of  this  kind  wrong  in  his  no- 
tions, but  absolutely  mad.  Exceptions  of  this 
sort,  in  either  way,  do  not  at  all  impeach  our 
general  rule,  nor  make  us  conclude  that  men 
have  various  principles  concerning  the  rela- 
tions of  quantity  or  the  taste  of  things.  So 
that  wdien  it  is  said,  taste  cannot  be  disputed, 
it  can  only  mean,  that  no  one  can  strictly 
answer  what  pleasure  or  pain  some  particu- 
lar man  may  find  from  the  taste  of  some  par- 
ticular thing.  This  indeed  cannot  be  dis- 
puted ; but  we  may  dispute,  and  with  suffi- 
cient clearness  too,  concerning  the  things 
which  are  naturally  pleasing  or  disagreeable 
to  the  sense.  But  when  we  talk  of  any  pecul- 
iar or  acquired  relish,  then  we  must  know 
the  habits,  the  prejudices,  or  the  distempers 
of  this  particular  man,  and  we  must  draw 
our  conclusion  from  those. 

This  agreement  of  mankind  is  not  confined 
to  the  taste  solely.  The  principle  of  pleasure 
derived  from  sight  is  the  same  in  all.  Light 
is  more  pleasing  than  darkness.  Summer, 
when  the  earth  is  clad  in  green,  when  the 
heavens  are  serene  and  bright,  is  more  agree- 
able than  winter,  when  everything  makes  a 
different  appearance.  I never  remember  that 
anything  beautiful,  whether  a man,  a beast, 
a bird,  or  a plant,  was  ever  shown,  though  it 
were  to  a hundred  people,  that  they  did  not 
all  immediately  agree  that  jt  was  beautiful, 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


9 


though  some  might  have  thought  that  it  fell 
short  of  their  expectation,  or  that  other  things 
were  still  finer.  I believe  no  man  thinks  a 
goose  to  be  more  beautiful  than  a swan,  or 
imagines  that  what  they  call  a Friezland  hen 
excels  a peacock.  It  must  be  observed  too, 
that  the  pleasures  of  the  sight  are  not  near  so 
complicated,  and  confused,  and  altered  by 
unnatural  habits  and  associations,  as  the 
pleasures  of  the  taste  are ; because  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  sight  more  commonly  acquiesce  in 
themselves ; and  are  not  so  often  altered  by 
considerations  which  are  independent  of  the 
sight  itself.  But  things  do  not  spontaneously 
present  themselves  to  the  palate  as  they  do 
to  the  sight ; they  are  generally  applied  to  it, 
either  as  food  or  as  medicine ; and  from  the 
qualities  which  they  possess  for  nutritive  or 
medicinal  purposes,  they  often  form  the 
palate  by  degrees,  and  by  force  of  these  asso- 
ciations. Thus  opium  is  pleasing  to  Turks, 
on  account  of  the  agreeable  delirium  it  pro- 
duces. Tobacco  is  the  delight  of  Dutchmen, 
as  it  diffuses  a torpor  and  pleasing  stupefac- 
tion. Fermented  spirits  please  our  common 
people,  because  they  banish  care,  and  all 
consideration  of  future  or  present  evils.  All 
of  these  would  lie  absolutely  neglected  if 
their  properties  had  originally  gone  no  fur- 
ther than  the  taste;  but  all  these,  together 
with  tea  and  coffee,  and  some  other  things, 
have  passed  from  the  apothecary’s  shop  to 
our  tables,  and  were  taken  for  health  long 
before  they  were  thought  of  for  pleasure. 
The  effect  of  the  drug  has  made  us  use  it 
frequently ; and  frequent  use,  combined  with 
the  agreeable  effect,  has  made  the  taste  itself 
at  last  agreeable.  But  this  does  not  in  the 
least  perplex  our  reasoning ; because  we  dis- 
tinguish to  the  last  the  acquired  from  the 
natural  relish.  In  describing  the  taste  of  an 


10 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


unknown  fruit,  you  would  scarcely  say  that 
it  had  a sweet  and  pleasant  flavor  like  to- 
bacco, opium,  or  garlick,  although  you  spoke 
to  those  who  were  in  the  constant  use  of  these 
drugs,  and  had  great  pleasure  in  them. 
There  is  in  all  men  a sufficient  remembrance 
of  the  original  natural  causes  of  pleasure,  to 
enable  them  to  bring  all  things  offered  to 
their  senses  to  that  standard,  and  to  regulate 
their  feelings  and  opinions  by  it.  Suppose 
one  who  had  so  vitiated  his  palate  as  to  take 
more  pleasure  in  the  taste  of  opium  than  in 
that  of  butter  or  honey,  to  be  presented  with 
a bolus  of  squills ; there  is  hardly  any  doubt 
but  that  he  would  prefer  the  butter  or  honey 
to  this  nauseous  morsel,  or  to  any  other  bitter 
drug  to  which  he  had  not  been  accustomed ; 
which  proves  that  his  palate  wTas  naturally 
like  that  of  other  men  in  all  things,  that  it  is 
still  like  the  palate  of  other  men  in  many 
things,  and  only  vitiated  in  some  particular 
points.  For  in  judging  of  any  new  thing, 
even  of  a taste  similar  to  that  wffiich  he  has 
been  formed  by  habit  to  like,  he  finds  his 
palate  affected  in  the  natural  manner,  and  on 
the  common  principles.  Thus  the  pleasure 
of  all  the  senses,  of  the  sight,  and  even  of  the 
taste,  that  most  ambiguous  of  the  senses,  is 
the  same  in  all,  high  and  low,  learned  and 
unlearned. 

Besides  the  ideas,  with  their  annexed  pains 
and  pleasures,  which  are  presented  by  the 
sense;  the  mind  of  man  possesses  a sort  of 
creative  power  of  its  own ; either  in  represent- 
ing at  pleasure  the  images  of  things  in  the 
order  and  manner  in  which  they  were  re- 
ceived by  the  senses,  or  in  combining  those 
images  in  a new  manner,  and  according  to  a 
different  order.  This  power  is  called  imagina- 
tion; and  to  this  belongs  whatever  is  called 
wit,  fancy,  invention,  and  the  like.  But  it 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


11 


must  be  observed,  that  the  power  of  the  im- 
agination is  incapable  of  producing  anything 
absolutely  new ; it  can  only  vary  the  disposi- 
tion of  those  ideas  which  it  has  received  from 
the  senses.  Now  the  imagination  is  the  most 
extensive  province  of  pleasure  and  pain,  as  it 
is  the  region  of  our  fears  and  our  hopes,  and 
of  all  our  passions  that  are  connected  with 
them;  and  whatever  is  calculated  to  effect 
the  imagination  with  these  commanding  ideas, 
by  force  of  any  original  natural  impression, 
must  have  the  same  power  pretty  equally  over 
all  men.  For  since  the  imagination  is  only 
the  representation  of  the  senses,  it  can  only 
be  pleased  or  displeased  with  the  images,  from 
the  same  principle  on  which  the  sense  is 
pleased  or  displeased  with  the  realities ; and 
consequently  there  must  be  just  as  close  an 
agreement  in  the  imaginations  as  in  the  senses 
of  men.  A little  attention  will  convince  us 
that  this  must  of  necessity  be  the  case. 

But  in  the  imaginations,  besides  the  pain  or 
pleasure  arising  from  the  properties  of  the 
natural  object,  a pleasure  is  perceived  from 
the  resemblance,  which  the  imitation  has  to 
the  original;  the  imagination,  I conceive,  can 
have  no  pleasure  but  what  results  from  one 
or  other  of  these  causes.  And  these  causes 
operate  pretty  uniformly  upon  all  men,  be- 
cause they  operate  by  principles  in  nature, 
and  which  are  not  derived  from  any  particu- 
lar habits  or  advantages.  Mr.  Locke  very 
justly  and  finely  observes  of  wit,  that  it  is 
chiefly  conversant  in  tracing  resemblances : he 
remarks  at  the  same  time  that  the  business  of 
judgment  is  rather  in  finding  differences.  It 
may  perhaps  appear,  on  this  supposition,  that 
there  is  no  material  distinction  between  the 
wit  and  the  judgment,  as  they  both  seem  to 
result  from  different  operations  of  the  same 
faculty  of  comparing . But  in  reality,  whether 


12 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


they  are  or  are  not  dependent  on  the  same 
power  of  the  mind,  they  differ  so  very  ma- 
terially in  many  respects,  that  a perfect  union 
of  wit  and  judgment  is  one  of  the  rarest  things 
in  the  world.  When  two  distinct  objects  are 
unlike  to  each  other,  it  is  only  what  we  ex- 
pect; things  are  in  their  common  way,  and 
therefore  they  make  no  impression  on  the 
imagination:  but  when  two  distinct  objects 
have  a resemblance,  we  are  struck,  we  attend 
to  them,  and  we  are  pleased.  The  mind  of 
man  has  naturally  a far  greater  alacrity  and 
satisfaction  in  tracing  resemblances  than  in 
searching  for  differences : because  by  mak- 
ing resemblances  we  produce  new  images;  we 
unite,  we  create,  we  enlarge  our  stock;  but 
in  making  distinctions  we  offer  no  food  at  all 
to  the  imagination;  the  task  itself  is  more 
severe  and  irksome,  and  what  pleasure  we 
derive  from  it  is  something  of  a negative  and 
indirect  nature.  A piece  of  news  is  told  me 
in  the  morning;  this,  merely  as  a piece  of 
news,  as  a fact  added  to  my  stock,  gives  me 
some  pleasure.  In  the  evening  I find  there 
was  nothing  in  it.  What  do  I gain  by  this, 
but  the  dissatisfaction  to  find  that  I had  been 
imposed  upon?  Hence  it  is  that  men  are 
much  more  naturally  inclined  to  belief  than 
to  incredulity.  And  it  is  upon  this  principle, 
that  the  most  ignorant  and  barbarous  na- 
tions have  frequently  excelled  in  similitudes, 
comparisons,  metaphors,  and  allegories,  who 
have  been  weak  and  backward  in  distinguish- 
ing and  sorting  their  ideas.  And  it  is  for  a 
reason  of  this  kind,  that  Homer  and  the  orien- 
tal writers,  though  very  fond  of  similitudes, 
and  though  they  often  strike  out  such  as  are 
truly  admirable,  seldom  take  care  to  have 
them  exact ; that  is,  they  are  taken  with  the 
general  resemblance,  they  paint  it  strongly, 
and  they  take  no  notice  of  the  difference 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


13 


which  may  be  found  between  the  things  com- 
pared. 

Now,  as  the  pleasure  of  resemblance  is  that 
which  principally  flatters  the  imagination,  all 
men  are  nearly  equal  in  this  point,  as  far  as 
their  knowledge  of  the  things  represented  or 
compared  extends.  The  principle  of  this 
knowledge  is  very  much  accidental,  as  it  de- 
pends upon  experience  and  observation,  and 
not  on  the  strength  or  weakness  of  any  natu- 
ral faculty ; and  it  is  from  this  difference  in 
knowledge,  that  what  we  commonly,  though 
with  no  great  exactness,  call  a difference  in 
taste  proceeds.  A man  to  whom  sculpture  is 
new,  sees  a barber’s  block,  or  some  ordinary 
piece  of  statuary ; he  is  immediately  struck 
and  pleased,  because  he  sees  something  like  a 
human  figure;  and,  entirely  taken  up  with 
this  likeness,  he  does  not  at  all  attend  to  its 
defects.  No  person,  I believe,  at  the  first 
time  of  seeing  a piece  of  imitation  ever  did. 
Some  time  after,  we  suppose  that  this  novice 
lights  upon  a more  artificial  work  of  the  same 
nature ; he  now  begins  to  look  with  contempt 
on  what  he  admired  at  first ; not  that  he  ad- 
mired it  even  then  for  its  unlikeness  to  a man, 
but  for  that  general  though  inaccurate  resem- 
blance which  it  bore  to  the  human  figure. 
What  he  admired  at  different  times  in  these 
so  different  figures,  is  strictly  the  same;  and 
though  his  knowledge  is  improved,  his  taste 
is  not  altered.  Hitherto  his  mistake  was 
from  a want  of  knowledge  in  art,  and  this 
arose  from  his  inexperience ; but  he  may  be 
still  deficient  from  a want  of  knowledge  in 
nature.  For  it  is  possible  that  the  man  in 
question  may  stop  here,  and  that  the  master- 
piece of  a great  hand  may  please  him  no  more 
than  the  middling  performance  of  a vulgar 
artist;  and  this  not  for  want  of  better  or 
higher  relish,  but  because  all  men  do  not  ob- 


14 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


serve  with  sufficient  accuracy  on  the  human 
figure  to  enable  them  to  judge  properly  of  an 
imitation  of  it.  And  that  the  critical  taste 
does  not  depend  upon  a superior  principle  in 
men,  but  upon  superior  knowledge,  may  ap- 
pear from  several  instances.  The  story  of  the 
ancient  painter  and  the  shoemaker  is  very 
well  known.  The  shoemaker  set  the  painter 
right  with  regard  to  some  mistakes  he  had 
made  in  the  shoe  of  one  of  his  figures,  and 
which  the  painter,  who  had  not  made  such 
accurate  observations  on  shoes,  and  was  con- 
tent with  a general  resemblance,  had  never 
observed.  But  this  was  no  impeachment  to 
the  taste  of  the  painter ; it  only  showed  some 
want  of  knowledge  in  the  art  of  making 
shoes.  Let  us  imagine,  that  an  anatomist 
had  come  into  the  painter’s  working-room. 
His  piece  is  in  general  well  done,  the  figure 
in  question  in  a good  attitude,  and  the  parts 
well  adjusted  to  their  various  movements; 
yet  the  anatomist,  critical  in  his  art,  may  ob- 
serve the  swell  of  some  muscle  not  quite  just 
in  the  peculiar  action  of  the  figure.  Here  the 
anatomist  observes  what  the  painter  had  not 
observed ; and  he  passes  by  what  the  shoe- 
maker had  remarked.  But  a want  of  the  last 
critical  knowledge  in  anatomy  no  more  re- 
flected on  the  natural  good  taste  of  the 
painter,  or  of  any  common  observer  of  his 
piece,  than  the  want  of  an  exact  knowledge 
in  the  formation  of  a shoe.  A fine  piece  of  a 
decollated  head  of  St.  John  the  Baptist  was 
shown  to  a Turkish  emperor;  he  praised 
many  things,  but  he  observed  one  defect ; he 
observed  that  the  skin  did  not  shrink  from 
the  wounded  part  of  the  neck.  The  sultan 
on  this  occasion,  though  his  observation  was 
very  just,  discovered  no  more  natural  taste 
than  the  painter  who  executed  this  piece,  0? 
than  a thousand  European  connoisseurs,  who 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


15 


probably  never  would  have  made  the  same 
observation.  His  Turkish  majesty  had  in- 
deed been  well  acquainted  with  that  terrible 
spectacle,  which  the  others  could  only  have 
represented  in  their  imagination.  On  the 
subject  of  their  dislike  there  is  a difference  be- 
tween all  these  people,  arising  from  the  dif- 
ferent kinds  and  degrees  of  their  knowledge ; 
but  there  is  something  in  common  to  the 
painter,  the  shoemaker,  the  anatomist,  and 
the  Turkish  emperor,  the  pleasure  arising 
from  a natural  object,  so  far  as  each  perceives 
it  justly  imitated ; the  satisfaction  in  seeing 
an  agreeable  figure;  the  sympathy  proceed- 
ing from  a striking  and  affecting  incident. 
So  far  as  taste  is  natural,  it  is  nearly  common 
to  all. 

In  poetry,  and  other  pieces  of  imagination, 
the  same  parity  may  be  observed.  It  is  true, 
that  one  man  is  charmed  with  Don  Bellianis, 
and  reads  Virgil  coldly:  whilst  another  is 
transported  with  the  Eneid,  and  leaves  Don 
Bellianis  to  children.  These  two  men  seem 
to  have  a taste  very  different  from  each 
other ; but  in  fact  they  differ  very  little.  In 
both  these  pieces,  which  inspire  such  opposite 
sentiments,  a tale  exciting  admiration  is  told ; 
both  are  full  of  action,  both  are  passionate; 
in  both  are  voyages,  battles,  and  triumphs, 
and  continual  changes  of  fortune.  The  ad- 
mirer of  Don  Bellianis  perhaps  does  not  un- 
derstand the  refined  language  of  the  Eneid, 
who,  if  it  was  degraded  into  the  style  of  the 
Pilgrim’s  Progress,  might  feel  it  in  all  its  en- 
ergy, on  the  same  principle  which  makes  him 
admire  Don  Bellianis. 

In  his  favorite  author  he  is  not  shocked 
with  the  continual  breaches  of  probability, 
the  confusion  of  times,  the  offences  against 
manners,  the  trampling  upon  geography ; for 
he  knows  nothing  of  geography  and  chronol- 


16 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


ogy,  and  he  has  never  examined  the  grounds 
of  probability.  He  perhaps  reads  of  a ship- 
wreck on  the  coast  of  Bohemia ; wholly  taken 
up  with  so  interesting  an  event,  and  only  so- 
licitous for  the  fate  of  his  hero,  he  is  not  in 
the  least  troubled  at  this  extravagant  blunder. 
For  why  should  he  be  shocked  at  a shipwreck 
on  the  coast  of  Bohemia,  who  does  not  know 
but  that  Bohemia  may  be  an  island  in  the 
Atlantic  ocean?  and  after  all,  what  reflection  1 
is  this  on  the  natural  good  taste  of  the  person 
here  supposed? 

So  far  then  as  taste  belongs  to  the  imagina- 
tion, its  principle  is  the  same  in  all  men ; there 
is  no  difference  in  the  manner  of  their  being 
affected,  nor  in  the  causes  of  the  affection ; but 
in  the  degree  there  is  a difference,  which 
arises  from  two  causes  principally;  either 
from  a greater  degree  of  natural  sensibility, 
or  from  a closer  and  longer  attention  to  the 
object.  To  illustrate  this  by  the  procedure  of 
the  senses,  in  which  the  same  difference  is 
found,  let  us  suppose  a very  smooth  marble 
table  to  be  set  before  two  men ; they  both  per- 
ceive it  to  be  smooth,  and  they  are  both 
pleased  with  it  because  of  this  quality.  So 
far  they  agree,  But  suppose  another,  and 
after  that  another  table,  the  latter  still  smooth- 
er than  the  former,  to  be  set  before  them.  It 
is  now  very  probable  that  these  men,  who  are 
so  agreed  upon  what  is  smooth,  and  in  the 
pleasure  from  thence,  will  disagree  when  they  f 
come  to  settle  which  table  has  the  advantage  j 
in  point  of  polish.  Here  is  indeed  the  great  dif- 
ference bet  Aveen  tastes,  when  men  come  to  com- 
pare the  excess  or  diminution  of  things  which 
are  judged  by  degree  and  not  by  measure. 
Nor  is  it  easy,  when  such  a difference  arises, 
to  settle  the  point,  if  the  excess  or  diminution 
be  not  glaring.  If  we  differ  in  opinion  about 
two  quantities,  we  can  have  recourse  to  a 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


17 


common  measure,  which  may  decide  the  ques- 
tion with  the  utmost  exactness;  and  this,  I 
take  it,  is  what  gives  mathematical  knowl- 
edge a greater  certainty  than  any  other.  But 
in  things  whose  excess  is  not  judged  by  great- 
er or  smaller,  as  smoothness  and  roughness, 
hardness  and  softness,  darkness  and  light, 
the  shades  of  colors,  all  these  are  very  easily 
distinguished  when  the  difference  is  any  way , 
considerable,  but  not  when  it  is  minute,  for*1 
want  of  common  measures,  which  perhaps 
may  never  come  to  be  discovered.  In  these 
nice  cases,  supposing  the  acuteness  of  the 
sense  equal,  the  greater  attention  and  habit 
in  such  things  will  have  the  advantage.  In 
the  question  about  the  tables,  the  marble-pol- 
isher will  unquestionably  determine  the  most 
accurately.  But  notwithstanding  this  want 
of  a common  measure  for  settling  many  dis- 
putes relative  to  the  senses,  and  their  repre- 
sentative the  imagination,  we  find  that  the 
principles  are  the  same  in  all,  and  that  there 
is  no  disagreement  until  we  come  to  examine 
into  the  pre-eminence  or  difference  of  things, 
which  brings  us  within  the  province  of  the 
judgment. 

So  long  as  we  are  conversant  with  the  sen- 
sible qualities  of  things,  hardly  any  more 
than  the  imagination  seems  concerned ; little 
more  also  than  the  imagination  seems  con- 
cerned when  the  passions  are  represented,  be- 
cause by  the  force  of  natural  sympathy  they 
are  felt  in  all  men  without  any  recourse  to 
reasoning,  and  their  justness  recognized  in 
every  breast.  Love,  grief,  fear,  anger,  joy, 
all  these  passions  have  in  their  turns  affected 
every  mind ; and  they  do  not  affect  it  in  an 
arbitrary  or  casual  manner,  but  upon  certain, 
natural,  and  uniform  principles.  But  as 
many  of  the  works  of  imagination  are  not 
confined  to  the  representation  of  sensible  ob- 
2 


18 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


jects,  nor  to  efforts  upon  the  passions,  but  ex- 
tend themselves  to  the  manners,  the  charac- 
ters, the  actions,  and  designs  of  men,  their  re- 
lations, their  virtues  and  vices,  they  come 
within  the  province  of  the  judgment,  which 
is  improved  by  attention  and  by  the  habit  of 
reasoning.  All  these  make  a very  consider- 
able part  of  what  are  considered  as  the  objects 
of  taste ; and  Horace  sends  us  to  the  schools 
of  philosophy  and  the  world  for  our  instruc- 
tion in  them.  Whatever  certainty  is  to  be 
acquired  in  morality  and  the  science  of  life ; 
just  the  same  degree  of  certainty  have  we  in 
what  relates  to  them  in  the  works  of  imita- 
tion. Indeed  it  is  for  the  most  part  in  our 
skill  in  manners,  and  in  the  observances  of 
time  and  place,  and  of  decency  in  general, 
which  is  only  to  be  learned  in  those  schools 
to  which  Horace  recommends  us,  that  what 
is  called  taste,  by  way  of  distinction,  consists ; 
and  which  is  in  reality  no  other  than  a more 
refined  judgment.  On  the  whole,  it  appears  to 
me,  that  what  is  called  taste,  in  its  most  gen- 
eral acceptation,  is  not  a simple  idea,  but  is 
partly  made  up  of  a perception  of  the  primary 
pleasures  of  sense,  of  the  secondary  pleasures 
of  the  imagination,  and  of  the  conclusions  of 
the  reasoning  faculty,  concerning  the  various 
relations  of  these,  and  concerning  the  human 
passions,  manners,  and  actions.  All  this  is 
requisite  to  form  taste,  and  the  ground-work 
of  all  these  is  the  same  in  the  human  mind ; 
for  as  the  senses  are  the  great  originals  of  all 
our  ideas,  and  consequently  of  all  our  pleas- 
ures, if  they  are  not  uncertain  and  arbitrary, 
the  whole  ground-work  of  taste  is  common  to 
all,  and  therefore  there  is  a sufficient  foun- 
dation for  a conclusive  reasoning  on  these 
matters. 

Whilst  we  consider  taste  merely  according 
to  its  nature  and  species,  we  shall  find  its 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


19 


principles  entirely  uniform;  but  the  degree 
in  which  these  principles  prevail,  in  the 
several  individuals  of  mankind,  is  alto- 
gether as  different  as  the  principles  them- 
selves are  similar.  For  sensibility  and  judg- 
ment, which  are  the  qualities  that  compose 
what  we  commonly  call  a taste,  vary  exceed- 
ingly in  various  people.  From  a defect  in  the 
former  of  these  qualities,  arises  a want  of 
taste ; a weakness  in  the  latter,  constitutes  a 
wrong  or  a bad  one.  There  are  some  men 
formed  with  feelings  so  blunt,  with  tempers 
so  cold  and  phlegmatic,  that  they  can  hardly 
be  said  to  be  awake  during  the  whole  course 
of  their  lives.  Upon  such  persons  the  most 
striking  objects  make  but  a faint  and  obscure 
impression.  There  are  others  so  continually 
in  the  agitation  of  gross  and  merely  sensual 
pleasures,  or  so  occupied  in  the  low  drudgery 
of  avarice,  or  so  heated  in  the  chase  of  hon- 
ors and  distinction,  that  their  minds,  which 
had  been  used  continually  to  the  storms  of 
these  violent  and  tempestuous  passions,  can 
hardly  be  put  in  motion  by  the  delicate  and 
refined  play  of  the  imagination.  These  men, 
though  from  a different  cause,  become  as  stu- 
pid and  insensible  as  the  former ; but  when- 
ever either  of  these  happen  to  be  struck  with 
any  natural  elegance  or  greatness,  or  with 
these  qualities  in  any  work  of  art,  they  are 
moved  upon  the  same  principle. 

The  cause  of  a wrong  taste  is  a defect  of 
judgment.  And  this  may  arise  from  a 
natural  weakness  of  understanding  (in  what- 
ever the  strength  of  that  faculty  may  con- 
sist), or,  which  is  much  more  commonly 
the  case,  it  may  arise  from  a want  of  proper 
and  well-directed  exercise,  which  alone  can 
make  it  strong  and  ready.  Besides  that 
ignorance,  inattention,  prejudice,  rashness, 
levity,  obstinacy,  in  short,  all  those  passions, 


20 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


and  all  those  vices,  which  pervert  the  judg- 
ment in  other  matters,  prejudice  it  no  less  in 
this  its  more  refined  and  elegant  province. 
These  causes  produce  different  opinions  upon 
everything  which  is  an  object  of  the  under- 
standing, without  inducing  us  to  suppose 
f that  there  are  no  settled  principles  of  reason. 
And  indeed  on  the  whole  one  may  observe, 
that  there  is  rather  less  difference  upon 
matters  of  taste  among  mankind,  than  up- 
on most  of  those  which  depend  upon 
naked  reason ; and  that  men  are  far  better 
agreed  on  the  excellence  of  a description 
in  Virgil,  than  on  the  truth  or  falsehood 
of  a theory  of  Aristotle. 

A rectitude  of  judgment  in  the  arts,  which 
may  be  called  a good  taste,  does  in  a great 
measure  depend  upon  sensibility ; because  if 
the  mind  has  no  bent  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
imagination,  it  will  never  apply  itself  suffi- 
ciently to  works  of  that  species  to  acquire  a 
competent  knowledge  in  them.  But  though 
a degree  of  sensibility  is  requisite  to  form  a 
good  judgment,  yet  a good  judgment  does 
not  necessarily  arise  from  a quick  sensibility 
of  pleasure ; it  frequently  happens  that  a very 
poor  judge,  merely  by  force  of  a greater  com- 
plexional  sensibility,  is  more  affected  by  a 
very  poor  piece,  than  the  best  judge  by  the 
most  perfect;  for  as  everything  new,  ex- 
traordinary, grand,  or  passionate,  is  well 
calculated  to  affect  such  a person,  and  that 
the  faults  do  not  affect  him,  his  pleasure  is 
more  pure  and  unmixed ; and  as  it  is  merely  a 
pleasure  of  the  imagination,  it  is  much  higher 
than  any  which  is  derived  from  a rectitude 
of  the  judgment;  the  judgment  is  for  the 
greater  part  employed  in  throwing  stumbling- 
blocks  in  the  way  of  the  imagination,  in  dis- 
sipating the  scenes  of  its  enchantment,  and  in 
tying  us  down  to  the  disagreeable  yoke  of 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


21 


our  reason ; for  almost  the  only  pleasure  that 
men  have  in  judging  better  than  others,  con- 
sists in  a sort  of  conscious  pride  and  supe- 
riority, which  arises  from  thinking  rightly; 
but  then,  this  is  an  indirect  pleasure,  a 
pleasure  which  does  not  immediately  result 
from  the  object  which  is  under  contemplation. 
In  the  morning  of  our  days,  when  the  senses 
are  unworn  and  tender,  when  the  whole  man 
is  awake  in  every  part,  and  the  gloss  of 
novelty  fresh  upon  all  the  objects  that  sur- 
round us,  how -lively  at  that  time  are  our 
sensations,  but  how  false  and  inaccurate  the 
judgments  we  form  of  things?  I despair  of 
ever  receiving  the  same  degree  of  pleasure 
from  the  most  excellent  performances  of 
genius,  which  I felt  at  that  age  from  pieces 
which  my  present  judgment  regards  as  tri- 
fling and  contemptible.  Every  trivial  cause 
of  pleasure  is  apt  to  affect  the  man  of  too 
sanguine  a complexion:  his  appetite  is  too 
keen  to  suffer  his  taste  to  be  delicate ; and 
he  is  in  all  respects  what  Ovid  says  of  him- 
self in  love. 

Molle  meurn  levibus  cor  est  violabile  telis, 

Et  semper  causa  est , cur  ego  semper  amem. 

One  of  this  character  can  never  be  a refined 
judge;  never  what  the  comic  poet  calls  ele- 
gans  for mar um  spectator.  The  excellence 
and  force  of  a composition  must  always  be 
imperfectly  estimated  from  its  effect  on  the 
minds  of  any,  except  we  know  the  temper 
and  character  of  those  minds.  The  most 
powerful  effects  of  poetry  and  music  have  been 
displayed,  and  perhaps  are  still  displayed, 
where  these  arts  are  but  in  a very  low  and 
imperfect  state.  The  rude  hearer  is  affected 
by  the  principles  which  operate  in  these  hearts 
even  in  their  rudest  condition ; and  he  is  not 
skilful  enough  to  perceive  the  defects.  But 


22 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


as  arts  advance  towards  their  perfection,  the 
science  of  criticism  advances  with  equal  pace, 
and  the  pleasures  of  judges  is  frequently  in- 
terrupted by  the  faults  which  are  discov- 
ered in  the  most  finished  compositions. 

Before  I leave  this  subject,  I cannot  help 
taking  notice  of  an  opinion  which  many 
persons  entertain,  as  if  the  taste  were  a sep- 
arate faculty  of  the  mind,  and  distinct  from 
the  judgment  and  imagination ; a species  of 
instinct,  by  which  we  are  struck  naturally, 
and  at  the  first  glance,  without  any  previous 
reasoning,  with  the  excellencies,  or  the  defects 
of  a composition.  So  far  as  the  imagination 
and  the  passions  are  concerned,  I believe  it 
true,  that  the  reason  is  little  consulted ; but 
where  disposition,  where  decorum,  where 
congruity  are  concerned,  in  short,  wherever 
the  best  taste  differs  from  the  worst,  I am 
convinced  that  the  understanding  operates 
and  nothing  else ; and  its  operation  is  in  reality 
far  from  being  always  sudden,  or,  when  it  is 
so,  it  is  often  far  from  being  right.  Men 
of  the  best  taste  by  consideration  come  fre- 
quently to  change  these  early  and  precipitate 
judgments,  which  the  mind,  from  its  aver- 
sion to  neutrality  and  doubt  loves  to  form  on 
the  spot.  It  is  known  that  the  taste  (whatever 
it  is)  is  improved  exactly  as  we  improve  our 
judgment,  by  extending  our  knowledge,  by  a 
steady  attention  to  our  object,  and  by  fre- 
quent exercise.  They  who  have  not  taken 
these  methods,  if  their  taste  decides  quickly, 
it  is  always  uncertainly ; and  their  quickness 
is  owing  to  their  presumption  and  rashness, 
and  not  to  any  hidden  irradiation  that  in  a 
moment  dispels  all  darkness  from  their 
minds.  But  they  who  have  cultivated  that 
species  of  knowledge  which  makes  the  ob- 
ject of  taste,  by  degrees  and  habitually 
attain  not  only  a soundness,  but  a readiness 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


23 


of  judgment,  as  men  do  by  the  same  methods 
on  all  other  occasions.  At  first  they  are 
obliged  to  spell,  but  at  last  they  read  with 
ease  and  with  celerity,  but  this  celerity  of  its 
operation  is  no  proof  that  the  taste  is  a 
distinct  faculty.  Nobody,  I believe,  has  at- 
tended the  cause  of  a discussion,  which  turned 
upon  matters  within  the  sphere  of  mere  naked 
reason,  but  must  have  observed  the  extreme 
readiness  with  which  the  whole  process  of  the 
argument  is  carried  on,  the  grounds  dis- 
covered, the  objections  raised  and  answered, 
and  the  conclusions  drawn  from  premises, 
with  a quickness  altogether  as  great  as  the 
taste  can  be  supposed  to  work  with ; and  yet 
where  nothing  but  plain  reason  either  is  or 
can  be  suspected  to  operate.  To  multiply 
principles  for  every  different  appearance  is 
useless,  and  unphilosophical  too  in  a high 
degree. 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  AND 
BEAUTIFUL. 


PART  I.— SEC.  I.— NOVELTY. 

The  first  and  the  simplest  emotion  which 
we  discover  in  the  human  mind,  is  curiosity. 
By  curiosity  I mean  whatever  desire  we  have 
for,  or  whatever  pleasure  we  take  in,  novelty. 
We  see  children  perpetually  running  from 
place  to  place  to  hunt  out  something  new: 
they  catch  with  great  eagerness,  and  with 
very  little  choice,  at  whatever  comes  before 
them ; their  attention  is  engaged  by  every- 
thing, because  everything  has,  in  that  stage 
of  life,  the  charm  of  novelty  to  recommend  it. 
But  as  those  things  which  engage  us  merely 


24 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


by  their  novelty,  cannot  attach  us  for  any 
length  of  time,  curiosity  is  the  most  superfi- 
cial of  all  the  affections;  it  changes  its  object 
perpetually ; it  has  an  appetite  which  is  very 
sharp,  but  very  easily  satisfied;  and  it  has 
always  an  appearance  of  giddiness,  restless- 
ness, and  anxiety.  Curiosity,  from  its  na- 
ture, is  a very  active  principle;  it  quickly 
runs  over  the  greatest  part  of  its  objects,  and 
soon  exhausts  the  variety  which  is  commonly 
to  be  met  with  in  nature;  the  same  things 
make  frequent  returns,  and  they  return  with 
less  and  less  of  any  agreeable  effect.  In 
short,  the  occurrences  of  life,  by  the  time  we 
come  to  know  it  a little,  would  be  incapable 
of  affecting  the  mind  with  any  other  sensa- 
tions than  those  of  loathing  and  weariness,  if 
many  things  were  not  adapted  to  affect  the 
mind  by  means  of  other  powers  besides  nov- 
elty in  them,  and  of  other  passions  besides 
curiosity  in  ourselves.  These  powers  and 
passions  shall  be  considered  in  their  place. 
But  whatever  these  powers  are,  or  upon  what 
principle  soever  they  affect  the  mind,  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  that  they  should  not  be 
exerted  in  those  things  which  a daily  vulgar 
use  have  brought  into  a stale  unaffecting  fa- 
miliarity. Some  degree  of  novelty  must  be 
one  of  the  materials  in  every  instrument 
which  works  upon  the  mind ; and  curiosity 
blends  itself  more  or  less  with  all  our  pas- 
sions. 

SEC.  II. -PAIN  AND  PLEASURE. 

It  seems  then  necessary  towards  moving 
the  passions  of  people  advanced  in  life  to  any 
considerable  degree,  that  the  objects  designed 
for  that  purpose,  besides  their  being  in  some 
measure  new,  should  be  capable  of  exciting 
pain  or  pleasure  from  other  causes.  Pain 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


25 


and  pleasure  are  simple  ideas,  incapable  of 
definition.  People  are  not  liable  to  be  mis- 
taken in  their  feelings,  but  they  are  very  fre- 
quently wrong  in  the  names  they  give  them, 
and  in  their  reasonings  about  them.  Many 
are  of  opinion,  that  pain  arises  necessarily 
from  the  removal  of  some  pleasure ; as  they 
think  pleasure  does  from  the  ceasing  or  dimi- 
nution of  some  pain.  For  my  part,  I am 
rather  inclined  to  imagine,  that  pain  and 
pleasure,  in  their  most  simple  and  natural 
manner  of  affecting,  are  each  of  a positive 
nature,  and  by  no  means  necessarily  depend- 
ent on  each  other  for  their  existence.  The 
human  mind  is  often,  and  I think  it  is  for  the 
most  part,  in  a state  neither  of  pain  nor 
pleasure,  which  I call  a state  of  indifference. 
When  I am  carried  from  this  state  into  a 
state  of  actual  pleasure,  it  does  not  appear 
necessary  that  I should  pass  through  the  me- 
dium of  any  sort  of  pain.  If  in  such  a state 
of  indifference,  or  ease,  or  tranquillity,  or  call 
it  what  you  please,  you  were  to  be  suddenly 
entertained  with  a concert  of  music ; or  sup- 
pose some  object  of  a fine  shape,  and  bright 
lively  colors,  to  be  presented  before  you;  or 
imagine  your  smell  is  gratified  with  the  fra- 
grance of  a rose ; or  if  without  any  previous 
thirst  you  were  to  drink  of  some  pleasant 
kind  of  wine,  or  to  taste  of  some  sweetmeat 
without  being  hungry;  in  all  the  several 
senses,  of  hearing,  smelling,  and  tasting,  you 
undoubtedly  find  a pleasure ; yet  if  I inquire 
into  the  state  of  your  mind  previous  to  these 
gratifications,  you  will  hardly  tell  me  that 
they  found  you  in  any  kind  of  pain ; or,  hav- 
ing satisfied  these  several  senses  with  their 
several  pleasures,  will  you  say  that  any  pain 
has  succeeded,  though  the  pleasure  is  abso- 
lutely over  ? Suppose,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
man  in  the  same  state  of  indifference,  to  re- 


26 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


ceive  a violent  blow,  or  to  drink  of  some  bit- 
ter potion,  or  to  have  his  ears  wounded  with 
some  harsh  and  grating  sound ; here  is  no  re- 
moval of  pleasure;  and  yet  here  is  felt,  in 
every  sense  which  is  affected,  a pain  very  dis- 
tinguishable. It  may  be  said,  perhaps,  that 
the  pain  in  these  cases  had  its  rise  from  the 
removal  of  the  pleasure  which  the  man  en- 
joyed before,  though  that  pleasure  was  of  so 
low  a degree  as  to  be  perceived  only  by  the 
removal.  But  this  seems  to  me  a subtilty, 
that  is  not  discoverable  in  nature.  For  if, 
previous  to  the  pain,  I do  not  feel  any  actual 
pleasure,  I have  no  reason  to  judge  that  any 
such  thing  exists  ; since  pleasure  is  only 
pleasure  as  it  is  felt.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  pain,  and  with  equal  reason.  I can  never 
persuade  myself  that  pleasure  and  pain  are 
mere  relations,  which  can  only  exist  as  they 
are  contrasted;  but  I think  I can  discern 
clearly  that  there  are  positive  pains  and 
pleasures,  which  do  not  at  all  depend  upon 
each  other.  Nothing  is  more  certain  to  my 
own  feelings  than  this.  There  is  nothing 
which  I can  distinguish  in  my  mind  with 
more  clearness  than  the  three  states,  of  indif- 
ference, of  pleasure,  and  of  pain.  Every  one 
of  these  I can  perceive  without  any  sort  of 
idea  of  its  relation  to  anything  else.  Caius 
is  afflicted  with  a fit  of  the  colic ; this  man  is 
actually  in  pain:  stretch  Caius  upon  the 

rack,  he  will  feel  a much  greater  pain ; but 
does  this  pain  of  the  rack  arise  from  the  re- 
moval of  any  pleasure?  or  is  the  fit  of  the 
colic  a pleasure  or  a pain  just  as  we  are 
pleased  to  consider  it? 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


27 


SEC.  III.— THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN 
THE  REMOVAL  OF  PAIN  AND  POS- 
ITIVE PLEASURE. 

We  shall  carry  this  proposition  yet  a step 
farther.  We  shall  venture  to  propose,  that 
pain  and  pleasure  are  not  only  not  necessarily 
dependent  for  their  existence  on  their  mutual 
diminution  or  removal,  but  that,  in  reality, 
the  diminution  or  ceasing  of  pleasure  does 
not  operate  like  positive  pain ; and  that  the 
removal  or  diminution  of  pain,  in  its  effect, 
has  very  little  resemblance  to  positive  jdeas- 
ure.*  The  former  of  these  propositions  will, 
I believe,  be  much  more  readily  allowed  than 
the  latter;  because  it  is  very  evident  that 
pleasure,  when  it  has  run  its  career,  sets  us 
down  very  nearly  where  it  found  us.  Pleas- 
ure of  every  kind  quickly  satisfies ; and  when 
it  is  over,  we  relapse  into  indifference,  or 
rather  we  fall  into  a soft  tranquillity,  which 
is  tinged  with  the  agreeable  color  of  the 
former  sensation.  I own  it  is  not  at  first 
view  so  apparent,  that  the  removal  of  a great 
pain  does  not  resemble  positive  pleasure ; but 
let  us  recollect  in  what  state  we  have  found 
our  minds  upon  escaping  some  imminent  dan- 
ger, or  on  being  released  from  the  severity  of 
some  cruel  pain.  We  have  on  such  occasions 
found,  if  I am  not  much  mistaken,  the  temper 
of  our  minds  in  a tenor  very  remote  from 
that  which  attends  the  preference  of  positive 
pleasure;  we  have  found  them  in  a state  of 
much  sobriety,  impressed  with  a sense  of 
awe,  in  a sort  of  tranquillity  shadowed  with 
horror.  The  fashion  of  the  countenance  and 

* Locke  on  Human  Understanding,  thinks  that  the  re- 
moval or  lessening  of  a pain  is  considered  and  operates  as  a 
pleasure,  and  the  loss  or  diminishing  of  pleasure  as  a pain. 
It  is  this  opinion  which  we  consider  here. 


28 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


the  gesture  of  the  body  on  such  occasions  is 
so  correspondent  to  this  state  of  mind,  that 
any  person,  a stranger  to  the  cause  of  the 
appearance,  would  rather  judge  us  under 
some  consternation,  than  in  the  enjoyment  of 
anything  like  positive  pleasure. 

d’  orav  avdp'  arrj  tcvklvt]  Aafirj  oto ' evi  Tvarpr/ 

<f>(ora  /caraKreivac,  aXkov  e^lketg  drjfiov , 

A vdpog  Eg  (Mpvsiov,  dapfiog  d’  e^ei  ELGopowvrag. 

As  when  a ivretch  who , conscious  of  his  crime , 
Pursued  for  murder  from  his  native  clime , 

Just  gains  some  frontier,  breathless , pale , amaz'd; 

All  gaze , all  wonder  / 

This  striking  appearance  of  the  man  whom 
Homer  supposes  to  have  just  escaped  an  im- 
minent danger,  the  sort  of  mixed  passion  of 
terror  and  surprise,  with  which  he  affects  the 
spectators,  paints  very  strongly  the  manner 
in  which  we  find  ourselves  affected  upon  occa- 
sions any  way  similar.  For  when  we  have 
suffered  from  any  violent  emotion,  the  mind 
naturally  continues  in  something  like  the 
same  condition,  after  the  cause  which  first 
produced  it  has  ceased  to  operate.  The  toss- 
ing of  the  sea  remains  after  the  storm ; and 
when  this  remain  of  horror  has  entirely  sub- 
sided, all  the  passion,  which  the  accident 
raised,  subsides  along  with  it  ; and  the  mind 
returns  to  its  usual  state  of  indifference.  In 
short,  pleasure,  (I  mean  anything  either  in 
the  inward . sensation,  or  in  the  outward 
appearance,  like  pleasure  from  a positive 
cause)  has  never,  I imagine,  its  origin  from 
the  removal  of  pain  or  danger. 

SEC.  IV.— OF  DELIGHT  AND  PLEASURE 
AS  OPPOSED  TO  EACH  OTHER. 

But  shall  we  therefore  say,  that  the  re- 
moval of  pain  or  its  diminution  is  always 
simply  painful  ? or  affirm  that  the  cessation 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


29 


or  the  lessening  of  pleasure  is  always  attended 
itself  with  a pleasure  ? By  no  means.  What 
I advance  is  no  more  than  this;  first,  that 
there  are  pleasures  and  pains  of  a positive  and 
independent  nature;  and  secondly,  that  the 
feeling  which  results  from  the  ceasing  or 
diminution  of  pain  does  not  bear  a sufficient 
resemblance  to  positive  pleasure,  to  have  it 
considered  as  of  the  same  nature,  or  to  entitle 
it  to  be  known  by  the  same  name ; and  thirdly, 
that  upon  the  same  principle  the  removal  or 
qualification  of  pleasure  has  no  resemblance 
to  positive  pain.  It  is  certain  that  the  former 
feeling  (the  removal  or  moderation  of  pain) 
has  something  in  it  far  from  distressing  or 
disagreeable  in  its  nature.  This  feeling,  in 
many  cases  so  agreeable,  but  in  all  so  different 
from  positive  pleasure,  has  no  name  which  I 
know ; but  that  hinders  not  its  being  a very 
real  one,  and  very  different  from  all  others. 
It  is  most  certain,  that  every  species  of  satis- 
faction or  pleasure,  how  different  soever  in 
its  manner  of  affecting,  is  of  a positive  nature 
in  the  mind  of  him  who  feels  it.  The  affec- 
tion is  undoubtedly  positive;  but  the  cause 
may  be,  as  in  this  case  it  certainly  is,  a sort  of 
privation . And  it  is  very  reasonable  that  we 
should  distinguish  by  some  term  two  things 
so  distinct  in  nature,  as  a pleasure  that  is 
i such  simply,  and  without  any  relation,  from 
that  pleasure  which  cannot  exist  without  a 
relation,  and  that  too  a relation  to  pain. 
Very  extraordinary  it  would  be,  if  these 
affections,  so  distinguishable  in  their  causes, 
so  different  in  their  effects,  should  be  con- 
founded with  each,  because  vulgar  use  has 
ranged  them  under  the  same  general  title. 
Whenever  I have  occasion  to  speak  of  this 
species  of  relative  pleasure,  I call  it  Delight; 
and  I shall  take  the  best  care  I can,  to  use 
that  word  in  no  other  sense.  I am  satisfied 


30 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


the  word  is  not  commonly  used  in  this  appro- 
priated signification ; but  I thought  it  better 
to  take  up  a word  already  known,  and  to 
limit  its  signification,  than  to  introduce  a new 
one,  which  would  not  perhaps  incorporate 
so  well  with  the  language.  I should  never 
have  presumed  the  least  alteration  in  our 
words,  if  the  nature  of  the  language, 
framed  for  the  purposes  of  business  rather 
than  those  of  philosophy,  and  the  nature  of 
my  subject,  that  leads  me  out  of  the  common 
track  of  discourse,  did  not  in  a manner  ne- 
cessitate me  to  it.  I shall  make  use  of  this 
liberty  with  all  possible  caution.  As  I make 
use  of  the  word  Delight  to  express  the  sensa- 
tion which  accompanies  the  removal  of  pain 
or  danger;  so  when  I speak  of  positive  pleas- 
ure I shall  for  the  most  part  call  it  simply 
Pleasure . 

SEC.  V.—  JOY  AND  GRIEF. 

It  must  be  observed,  that  the  cessation  of 
pleasure  affects  the  mind  three  ways.  If  it 
simply  ceases,  after  having  continued  a prop- 
er time,  the  effect  is  indifference ; if  it  be 
abruptly  broken  off,  there  ensues  an  uneasy 
sense  called  disappointment ; if  the  object  be 
so  totally  lost  that  there  is  no  chance  of  en- 
joying it  again,  a passion  arises  in  the  mind, 
which  is  called  grief.  Now,  there  is  none  of 
these,  not  even  grief,  which  is  the  most  vio- 
lent, that  I think  has  any  resemblance  to 
positive  pain.  The  person  who  grieves,  suf- 
fers his  passion  to  grow  upon  him;  he  in- 
dulges it,  he  loves  it ; but  this  never  happens 
in  the  case  of  actual  pain,  which  no  man  ever 
willingly  endured  for  any  considerable  time. 
That  grief  should  be  willingly  endured, 
thougn  far  from  a simply  pleasing  sensation, 
is  not  so  difficult  to  be  understood.  It  is  the 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


31 


nature  of  grief  to  keep  its  object  perpetually 
in  its  eye,  to  present  it  in  its  most  pleasurable 
views,  to  repeat  all  the  circumstances  that 
attend  it,  even  to  the  last  minuteness ; to  go 
back  to  every  particular  enjoyment,  to  dwell 
upon  each,  and  to  find  a thousand  new  per- 
fections in  all,  that  were  not  sufficiently  un- 
derstood before ; in  grief,  the  pleasure  is  still 
uppermost;  and  the  affliction  we  suffer  has 
no  resemblance  to  absolute  pain,  which  is  al- 
ways odious,  and  which  we  endeavor  to 
shake  off  as  soon  as  possible.  The  Odyssey 
of  Homer,  which  abounds  with  so  many  nat- 
ural and  affecting  images,  has  none  more 
striking  than  those  which  Menelaus  raises  of 
the  calamitous  fate  of  his  friends,  and  his 
own  manner  of  feeling  it.  He  owns,  indeed, 
that  he  often  gives  himself  some  intermission 
from  such  melancholy  reflections ; but  he  ob- 
serves, too,  that,  melancholy  as  they  are, 
they  give  him  pleasure. 

A/U/  efj.7T7]g  rcavrag  /uev  odvpojuevog  aat  axevuv, 
TloXTiaiug  ev  fieyapoLGL  KaOe/uevog  yuerepoLGiVy 
ATAote  psv  te  you  (ppeva  rspnopai , clTAote  6’  avrs 
Tlavopar  atipypog  6s  Kopog  upvspoio  yooio. 

Still  in  short  intervals  of  pleasing  woe, 

Regardful  of  the  friendly  dues  I owe , 

I to  the  glorious  dead  forever  dear , 

Indulge  the  tribute  of  a grateful  tear. — Horn.  Od.  iv. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  we  recover  our 
health,  when  we  escape  an  imminent  danger, 
is  it  with  joy  that  we  are  affected?  The  sense 
on  these  occasions  is  far  from  that  smooth 
and  voluptuous  satisfaction  which  the  assured 
prospect  of  pleasure  bestows.  The  delight 
which  arises  from  the  modifications  of  pain, 
confesses  the  stock  from  whence  it  sprung,  in 
its  solid,  strong,  and  severe  nature. 


32 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


SEC.  VI. -OF  THE  PASSIONS  WHICH  BE- 
LONG TO  SELF-PRESERVATION. 

Most  of  the  ideas  which  are  capable  of 
making  a powerful  impression  on  the  mind, 
whether  simply  of  Pain  or  Pleasure,  or  of  the 
modifications  of  those,  may  be  reduced  very 
nearly  to  these  two  heads,  self-preservation 
and  society ; to  the  ends  of  one  or  the  other  of 
which  all  our  passions  are  calculated  to  an- 
swer. The  passions  which  concern  self-pres- 
ervation, turn  mostly  on  pain  or  danger. 
The  ideas  of  pain,  sickness,  and  death,  fill  the 
mind  with  strong  emotions  of  horror ; but  life 
and  health,  though  they  put  us  in  a capacity 
of  being  affected  with  pleasure,  they  make  no 
such  impression  by  the  simple  enjoyment. 
The  passions  therefore  which  are  conversant 
about  the  preservation  of  the  individual,  turn 
chiefly  on  pain  and  danger,  and  they  are  the 
most  powerful  of  all  the  passions. 

SEC.  VII.— OF  THE  SUBLIME. 

Whatever  is  fitted  in  any  sort  to  excite 
the  ideas  of  pain  and  danger,  that  is  to  say, 
whatever  is  any  sort  terrible,  or  is  conver- 
sant about  terrible  objects,  or  operates  in  a 
manner  analogous  to  terror,  is  a source  of  the 
sublime;  that  is,  it  is  productive  of  the  strong- 
est emotion  which  the  mind  is  capable  of  feel- 
ing. I say  the  strongest  emotion,  because  I 
am.  satisfied  the  ideas  of  pain  are  much  more 
powerful  than  those  which  enter  on  the  part 
oj.  pleasure.  Without  all  doubt,  the  torments 
which  we  may  be  made  to  suffer,  are  much 
greater  in  their  effect  on  the  body  and  mind, 
than  any  pleasures  which  the  most  learned 
voluptuary  could  suggest,  or  than  the  liveli- 
est imagination,  and  the  most  sound  and  ex- 


AND  BE  A UTIFUL. 


33 


quisitely  sensible  body  could  enjoy.  Nay,  I 
am  in  great  doubt  whether  any  man  could 
be  found  who  would  earn  a life  of  the  most 
perfect  satisfaction,  at  the  price  of  ending  it 
in  the  torments,  which  justice  inflicted  in  a 
few  hours  on  the  late  unfortunate  regicide  in 
France.  But  as  pain  is  stronger  in  its  opera- 
tion than  pleasure,  so  death  is  in  general  a 
much  more  affecting  idea  than  pain ; because 
there  are  very  few  pains,  however  exquisite, 
which  are  not  preferred  to  death : nay,  what 
generally  makes  pain  itself,  if  I may  say  so, 
more  painful,  is  that  it  is  considered  as  an 
emissary  of  this  king  of  terrors.  When  dan- 
ger or  pain  press  too  nearly,  they  are  incapa- 
ble of  giving  any  delight,  and  are  simply  ter- 
rible; but  at  certain  distances,  and  with  cer- 
tain modifications,  they  may  be,  and  they 
are  delightful,  as  we  every  day  experience. 
The  cause  of  this  I shall  endeavor  to  investi- 
gate hereafter. 

SEC.  VIII.—  OF  THE  PASSIONS  WHICH 
BELONG  TO  SOCIETY. 

The  other  head  under  which  I class  our 
passions,  is  that  of  society , which  may  be  di- 
vided into  two  sorts.  1.  The  society  of  the 
sexes,  which  answers  the  purpose  of  propaga- 
tion; and  next,  that  more  general  society , 
which  we  have  with  men  and  with  other  ani- 
mals, and  which  we  may  in  some  sort  be  said 
to  have  even  with  the  inanimate  world.  The 
passions  belonging  to  the  preservation  of  the 
individual,  turn  wholly  on  pain  and  danger ; 
those  which  belong  to  generation ; have  their 
origin  in  gratifications  and  pleasures;  the 
pleasure  most  directly  belonging  to  this  pur- 
pose is  of  a lively  character,  rapturous  and 
violent,  and  confessedly  the  highest  pleasure 
of  sense ; yet  the  absence  of  this  so  great  an 


34 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


enjoyment,  scarce  amounts  to  an  uneasiness ; 
and,  except  at  particular  times,  I do  not  think 
it  affects  at  all.  When  men  describe  in  what 
manner  they  are  affected  by  pain  and  dan- 
ger, they  do  not  dwell  on  the  pleasure  of 
health  and  the  comfort  of  security,  and  then 
lament  the  loss  of  these  satisfactions:  the 
whole  turns  upon  the  actual  pains  and  hor- 
rors which  they  endure.  But  if  you  listen  to 
the  complaints  of  a forsaken  lover,  you  ob- 
serve that  he  insists  largely  on  the  pleasures 
which  he  enjoyed  or  hoped  to  enjoy  and  on 
the  perfection  of  the  object  of  his  desires;  it 
is  the  loss  which  is  always  uppermost  in  his 
mind.  The  violent  effects  produced  by  love, 
which  has  sometimes  been  even  wrought  up 
to  madness,  is  no  objection  to  the  rule  which 
we  seek  to  establish.  When  men  have  suf- 
fered their  imaginations  to  be  long  affected 
with  any  idea,  it  so  wholly  engrosses  them  as 
to  shut  out  by  degrees  almost  every  other, 
and  to  break  down  every  partition  of  the 
mind  which  would  confine  it.  Any  idea  is 
sufficient  for  the  purpose,  as  is  evident  from 
the  infinite  variety  of  causes  which  give  rise 
to  madness;  but  this  at  most  can  only  prove 
that  the  passion  of  love  is  capable  of  produc- 
ing very  extraordinary  effects,  not  that  its 
extraordinary  emotions  have  any  connection 
with  positive  pain. 

SEC.  IX.— THE  FINAL  CAUSE  OF  THE 
DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  THE  PAS- 
SIONS BELONGING  TO  SELF-PRES- 
ERVATION,  AND  THOSE  WHICH 
REGARD  THE  SOCIETY  OF  THE 
SEXES. 

The  final  cause  of  the  difference  in  charac- 
ter between  the  passions  which  regard  self- 
preservation  and  those  which  are  directed  to 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


35 


the  multiplication  of  the  species,  will  illus- 
trate the  foregoing  remarks  yet  further ; and 
it  is,  I imagine,  worthy  of  observation  even 
upon  its  own  account.  As  the  performance 
of  our  duties  of  every  kind  depends  upon  life, 
and  the  performing  them  with  vigor  and  effi- 
cacy depends  upon  health,  we  are  very 
strongly  affected  with  whatever  threatens 
the  destruction  of  either : but  as  we  were  not 
made  to  acquiesce  in  life  and  health,  the  sim- 
ple enjoyment  of  them  is  not  attended  with 
any  real  pleasure,  lest,  satisfied  with  that,  we 
should  give  ourselves  over  to  indolence  and 
inaction.  On  the  other  hand,  the  generation 
of  mankind  is  a great  purpose,  and  it  is  re- 
quisite that  men  should  be  animated  to  the 
pursuit  of  it  by  some  great  incentive.  It  is 
therefore  attended  with  a very  high  pleasure ; 
but  as  it  is  by  no  means  designed  to  be  our 
constant  business,  it  is  not  fit  that  the  ab- 
sence of  this  pleasure  should  be  attended  with 
any  considerable  pain.  The  difference  be- 
tween men  and  brutes  in  this  point,  seems  to 
be  remarkable.  Men  are  at  all  times  pretty 
equally  disposed  to  the  pleasures  of  love,  be- 
cause they  are  to  be  guided  by  reason  in  the 
time  and  manner  of  indulging  them.  Had 
any  great  pain  arisen  from  the  want  of  this 
satisfaction,  reason,  I am  afraid,  would  find 
great  difficulties  in  the  performance  of  its  of- 
fice. But  brutes,  who  obey  laws,  in  the  execu- 
tion of  which  their  own  reason  has  but  little 
share,  have  their  stated  seasons;  at  such 
times  it  is  not  improbable  that  the  sensation 
from  the  want  is  very  troublesome,  because 
the  end  must  be  then  answered,  or  be  missed 
in  many,  perhaps  forever ; as  the  inclination 
returns  only  with  its  season. 


36 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


SEC.  X.— OF  BEAUTY. 

The  passion  which  belongs  to  generation, 
merely  as  such,  is  lust  only.  This  is  evident 
in  brutes,  whose  passions  are  more  unmixed 
and  which  pursue  their  purposes  more  di- 
rectly than  ours.  The  only  distinction  they 
observe  with  regard  to  their  mates,  is  that  of 
sex.  It  is  true,  that  they  stick  severally  to 
their  own  species  in  preference  to  all  others. 
But  this  preference,  I imagine,  does  not  arise 
from  any  sense  of  beauty,  which  they  find  in 
their  species,  as  Mr.  Addison  supposes,  but 
from  a law  of  some  other  kind,  to  which  they 
are  subject ; and  this  we  may  fairly  conclude, 
from  their  apparent  want  of  choice  amongst 
those  objects  to  which  the  barriers  of  their 
species  have  confined  them.  But  man,  who 
is  a creature  adapted  to  a greater  variety  and 
intricacy  of  relation,  connects  with  the  gen- 
eral passion,  the  idea  of  some  social  qualities, 
which  direct  and  heighten  the  appetite  which 
he  1ms  in  common  with  all  other  animals ; and 
as  he  is  not  designed  like  them  to  live  at 
large,  it  is  fit  that  he  should  have  something 
to  create  a preference,  and  fix  his  choice ; and 
this  in  general  should  be  some  sensible  qual- 
ity; as  no  other  can  so  quickly,  so  power- 
fully, or  surely  produce  its  effect.  The  ob- 
ject therefore  of  this  mixed  passion,  which 
we  call  love,  is  the  beauty  of  the  sex.  Men 
are  carried  to  the  sex  in  general,  as  it  is  the 
sex,  and  by  the  common  law  of  nature ; but 
they  are  attached  to  particulars  by  personal 
beauty.  I call  beauty  a social  quality;  for 
when  women  and  men,  and  not  only  they, 
but  when  other  animals  give  us  a sense  of 
joy  and  pleasure  in  beholding  them  (and  they 
are  many  that  do  so,)  they  inspire  us  with 
sentiments  of  tenderness  and  affection  tow- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


37 


ards  their  persons;  we  like  to  have  them 
near  ns,  and  we  enter  willingly  into  a kind  of 
relation  with  them,  unless  we  should  have 
strong  reasons  to  the  contrary.  But  to  what 
end,  in  many  cases,  this  was  designed,  I am 
unable  to  discover ; for  I see  no  greater  reason 
for  a connection  between  man  and  several 
animals  who  are  attired  in  so  engaging  a man- 
ner, than  between  him  and  some  others  who 
entirely  want  this  attraction,  or  possess  it  in 
a far  weaker  degree.  But  it  is  probable,  that 
Providence  did  not  make  even  this  distinc- 
tion, but  with  a view  to  some  great  end, 
though  we  cannot  perceive  distinctly  what  it 
is,  as  his  wisdom  is  not  our  wisdom,  nor  our 
ways  his  ways. 

SEC.  XI.— SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE. 

The  second  branch  of  the  social  passions  is 
that  which  administers  to  society  in  general. 
With  regard  to  this,  I observe,  that  society, 
merely  as  society,  without  any  particular 
heightenings,  gives  us  no  positive  pleasure  in 
the  enjoyment ; but  absolute  and  entire  soli- 
tude, that  is,  the  total  and  perpetual  exclu- 
sion from  all  society,  is  as  great  a positive 
pain  as  can  almost  be  conceived.  Therefore 
in  the  balance  between  the  pleasure  of  general 
society  and  the  pain  of  absolute  solitude,  pain 
is  the  predominant  idea.  But  the  pleasure 
of  any  particular  social  enjoyment  out-weighs 
very  considerably  the  uneasiness  caused  by 
the  want  of  that  particular  enjoyment;  so 
that  the  strongest  sensations  relative  to  the 
habitudes  of  particular  society , are  sensations 
of  pleasure.  0-ood  company,  lively  conver- 
sations, and  the  endearments  of  friendship, 
fill  the  mind  with  great  pleasure;  a tempo- 
rary solitude  on  the  other  hand,  is  itself  agree- 
able. This  may  perhaps  prove  that  we  are 


38 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


creatures  designed  for  contemplation  as  well 
as  action;  since  solitude  as  well  as  society 
has  its  pleasures ; as  from  the  former  obser- 
vation we  may  discern,  that  an  entire  life  of 
solitude  contradicts  the  purposes  of  our  be- 
ing, since  death  itself  is  scarcely  an  idea  of 
more  terror. 

SEC.  XII.— SYMPATHY,  IMITATION,  AND 
AMBITION. 

Under  this  denomination  of  society,  the 
passions  are  of  a complicated  kind,  and  branch 
out  into  a variety  of  forms  agreeable  to  that 
variety  of  ends  they  are  to  serve  in  the  great 
chain  of  society.  The  three  principal  links 
in  this  chain  are  sympathy , imitation , and 
ambition. 

SEC.  XIII.— SYMPATHY. 

It  is  by  the  first  of  these  passions  that  we 
enter  into  the  concerns  of  others ; that  we  are 
moved  as  they  are  moved,  and  are  never  suf- 
fered to  be  indifferent  spectators  of  almost 
anything  which  men  can  do  or  suffer.  For 
sympathy  must  be  considered  as  a sort  of 
substitution,  by  which  we  are  put  into  the 
place  of  another  man,  and  affected  in  many 
respects  as  he  is  affected:  so  that  this  pas- 
sion may  either  partake  of  the  nature  of  those 
which  regard  self-preservation,  and  turning 
upon  pain  may  be  a source  of  the  sublime ; or 
it  may  turn  upon  ideas  of  pleasure ; and  then 
whatever  has  been  said  of  the  social  affections, 
whether  they  regard  society  in  general,  or 
only  some  particular  modes  of  it,  may  be  ap- 
plicable here.  It  is  by  this  principle  chiefly 
that  poetry,  painting,  and  other  affecting 
arts,  transfuse  their  passions  from  one  breast 
to  another,  and  are  often  capable  of  grafting 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


39 


a delight  on  wretchedness,  misery,  and  death 
itself.  It  is  a common  observation,  that  ob- 
jects which  in  the  reality  would  shock,  are  n 
in  tragical  and  such  like  representations,  the 
source  of  a very  high  species  of  pleasure. 
This  taken  as  a fact,  has  been  the  cause  of 
much  reasoning.  The  satisfaction  has  been 
commonly  attributed,  first,  to  the  comfort  we 
receive  in  considering  that  so  melancholy  a 
story  is  no  more  than  a fiction ; and  next, 
to  the  contemplation  of  our  own  freedom 
from  the  evils  which  we  see  represented.  I 
am  afraid  it  is  a practice  much  too  common 
in  inquiries  of  this  nature,  to  attribute  the 
cause  of  feelings  which  merely  arise  from 
the  mechanical  structure  of  our  bodies,  or 
from  the  natural  frame  and  constitution 
of  our  minds,  to  certain  conclusions  of  the 
reasoning  faculty  on  the  objects  presented  to 
us;  for  I should  imagine,  that  the  influence 
of  reason  in  producing  our  passions  is  noth- 
ing near  so  extensive  as  it  is  commonly  be- 
lieved. 

SEC.  XIV.— THE  EFFECTS  OF  SYMPA- 
THY IN  THE  DISTRESSES  OF  OTHERS. 

To  examine  this  point  concerning  the  effect 
of  tragedy  in  a proper  manner,  we  must  pre- 
viously consider  how  we  are  affected  by  the 
feelings  of  our  fellow-creatures  in  circum- 
stances of  real  distress.  I am  convinced  we 
have  a degree  of  delight,  and  that  no  small 
one,  in  the  real  misfortunes  and  pains  of 
others ; for  let  the  affection  be  what  it  will  in 
appearance,  if  it  does  not  make  us  shun  such 
objects,  if  on  the  contrary  it  induces  us  to 
approach  them,  if  it  makes  us  dwell  upon 
them,  in  this  case  I conceive  we  must  have  a 
delight  or  pleasure  of  some  species  or  other 
in  contemplating  objects  of  this  kind.  Do 


40 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


we  not  read  the  authentic  histories  of  scenes 
of  this  nature  with  as  much  pleasure  as  ro- 
mances or  poems,  where  the  incidents  are 
fictitious  ? The  prosperity  of  no  empire,  nor 
the  grandeur  of  no  king,  can  so  agreeably 
affect  in  the  reading,  as  the  ruin  of  the  state 
of  Macedon,  and  the  distress  of  its  unhappy 
prince.  Such  a catastrophe  touches  us  in 
history  as  much  as  the  destruction  of  Troy 
does  in  fable.  Our  delight,  in  cases  of  this 
kind,  is  very  greatly  heightened,  if  the  suf- 
ferer be  some  excellent  person  who  sinks 
under  an  unworthy  fortune.  Scipio  and  Cato 
are  both  virtuous  characters,  but  we  are  more 
deeply  affected  by  the  violent  death  of  the 
one,  and  the  ruin  of  the  great  cause  he  ad- 
hered to,  than  with  the  deserved  triumphs 
and  uninterrupted  prosperity  of  the  other; 
for  terror  is  a passion  which  always  produces 
delight  when  it  does  not  press  too  close ; and 
pity  is  a passion  accompanied  with  pleasure, 
because  it  arises  from  love  and  social  affec- 
tion. Whenever  we  are  formed  by  nature  to 
any  active  purpose,  the  passion  which  ani- 
mates us  to  it,  is  attended  with  delight,  or  a 
pleasure  of  some  kind,  let  the  subject-matter 
be  what  it  will ; and  as  our  Creator  has  de- 
signed we  should  be  united  by  the  bond  of 
sympathy,  he  has  strengthened  that  bond  by 
a proportionable  delight;  and  there  most 
where  our  sympathy  is  most  wanted,  in  the 
distresses  of  others.  If  this  passion  was  sim- 
ply painful,  we  would  shun  with  the  greatest 
care  all  persons  and  places  that  could  excite 
such  a passion ; as  some,  who  are  so  far  gone 
in  indolence  as  not  to  endure  any  stronger 
impression,  actually  do.  But  the  case  is 
widely  different  with  the  greater  part  of 
mankind ; there  is  no  spectacle  we  so  eagerly 
pursue,  as  that  of  some  uncommon  and  griev- 
ous calamity;  so  that  whether  the  misfort- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


41 


une  is  before  our  eyes,  or  whether  they  are 
turned  back  to  it  in  history,  it  always  touches 
with  delight.  This  is  not  an  unmixed  delight, 
but  blended  with  no  small  uneasiness.  The 
delight  we  have  in  such  things,  hinders  us 
from  shunning  scenes  of  misery;  and  the 
pain  we  feel  prompts  us  to  relieve  ourselves 
in  relieving  those  who  suffer;  and  all  this 
antecedent  to  any  reasoning,  by  an  instinct 
that  works  us  to  its  own  purposes  without 
our  concurrence. 

SEC.  XV.— OF  THE  EFFECTS  OF  TRAG- 
EDY. 

It  is  thus  in  real  calamities.  In  imitated 
distresses  the  only  difference  is  the  pleasure 
resulting  from  the  effects  of  imitation ; for  it 
is  never  so  perfect,  but  we  can  perceive  it  is 
imitation,  and  on  that  principle  are  somewhat 
pleased  with  it.  And  indeed  in  some  cases 
we  derive  as  much  or  more  pleasure  from 
that  source  than  from  the  thing  itself.  But 
then  I imagine  we  shall  be  much  mistaken  if 
we  attribute  any  considerable  part  of  our 
satisfaction  in  tragedy  to  the  consideration 
that  tragedy  is  a deceit  and  its  representa- 
tions no  realities.  The  nearer  it  approaches 
the  reality,  and  the  further  it  removes  us 
from  all  idea  of  fiction,  the  more  perfect  is 
its  power.  But  be  its  power  of  what  kind  it 
will,  it  never  approaches  to  what  it  repre- 
sents. Choose  a day  on  which  to  represent 
the  most  sublime  and  affecting  tragedy  we 
have ; appoint  the  most  favorite  actors ; 
spare  no  cost  upon  the  scenes  and  decora- 
tions; unite  the  greatest  efforts  of  poetry, 
painting,  and  music;  and  when  you  have 
collected  your  audience,  just  at  the  moment 
when  their  minds  are  erect  with  expectation, 
let  it  be  reported  that  a state  criminal  of  high 


42 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


rank  is  on  the  point  of  being  executed  in  the 
adjoining  square ; in  a moment  the  emptiness 
of  the  theatre  would  demonstrate  the  com- 
parative weakness  of  the  imitative  arts,  and 
proclaim  the  triumph  of  the  real  sympathy. 
I believe  that  this  notion  of  our  having  a 
simple  pain  in  the  reality,  yet  a delight  in 
the  representation,  arises  from  hence,  that 
we  do  not  sufficiently  distinguish  what  we 
would  by  no  means  choose  to  do,  from  what 
we  should  be  eager  enough  to  see  if  it  was 
once  done.  We  delight  in  seeing  things, 
which  so  far  from  doing,  our  heartiest  wishes 
would  be  to  see  redressed.  This  noble  capi- 
tal, the  pride  of  England  and  of  Europe,  I 
believe  no  man  is  so  strangely  wicked  as  to  de- 
sire to  see  destroyed  by  a conflagration  or  an 
earthquake,  though  he  should  be  removed 
himself  to  the  greatest  distance  from  the 
danger.  But  suppose  such  a fatal  accident 
to  have  happened  what  numbers  from  all 
parts  would  crowd  to  behold  the  ruins,  and 
amongst  them  many  who  would  have  been 
content  never  to  have  seen  London  in  its 
glory!  Nor  is  it,  either  in  real  or  fictitious 
distresses,  our  immunity  from  them  which 
produces  our  delight ; in  my  own  mind  I can 
discover  nothing  like  it.  I apprehend  that 
this  mistake  is  owing  to  a sort  of  sophism, 
by  which  we  are  frequently  imposed  upon; 
it  arises  from  our  not  distinguishing  between 
what  is  indeed  a necessary  condition  to  our 
doing  or  suffering  anything  in  general,  and 
what  is  the  cause  of  some  particular  act.  If 
a man  kills  me  with  a sword,  it  is  a necessary 
condition  to  this  that  we  should  have  been 
both  of  us  alive  before  the  fact;  and  yet  it 
would  be  absurd  to  say,  that  our  being  both 
living  creatures  was  the  cause  of  his  crime 
and  of  my  death.  So  it  is  certain,  that  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  my  life  should  be  out  of 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


43 


any  imminent  hazard,  before  I can  take  a 
delight  in  the  sufferings  of  others,  real  or 
imaginary,  or  indeed  in  anything  else  from 
any  cause  whatsoever.  But  then  it  is  a soph- 
ism to  argue  from  thence,  that  this  immunity 
is  the  cause  of  my  delight  either  on  these  or 
any  occasions.  No  one  can  distinguish  such 
a cause  of  satisfaction  in  his  own  mind,  I 
believe ; nay,  when  we  do  not  suffer  any  very 
acute  pain,  nor  are  exposed  to  any  imminent 
danger  of  our  lives,  we  can  feel  for  others, 
whilst  we  suffer  ourselves  ; and  often  then 
most  when  we  are  softened  by  affliction ; we 
see  with  pity  even  distresses  which  we  would 
accept  in  the  place  of  our  own. 

SEC.  XVI.— IMITATION. 

The  second  passion  belonging  to  society  is 
imitation,  or,  if  you  will,  a desire  of  imitat- 
ing, and  consequently  a pleasure  in  it.  This 
passion  arises  from  much  the  same  cause 
with  sympathy.  For  as  sympathy  makes 
us  take  a concern  in  whatever  men  feel,  so 
this  affection  prompts  us  to  copy  whatever 
they  do ; and  consequently  we  have  a pleas- 
ure in  imitating,  and  in  whatever  belongs  to 
imitation  merely  as  it  is  such,  without  any 
intervention  of  the  reasoning  faculty;  but 
solely  from  our  natural  constitution,  which 
Providence  has  framed  in  such  a manner  as 
to  find  either  pleasure  or  delight,  according 
to  the  nature  of  the  object,  in  whatever 
regards  the  purposes  of  our  being.  It  is  by 
imitation  far  more  than  by  precept,  that  we 
learn  everything;  and  what  we  learn  thus, 
we  acquire  not  only  more  effectually,  but 
more  pleasantly.  This  forms  our  manners, 
our  opinions,  our  lives.  It  is  one  of  the 
strongest  links  of  society;  it  is  a species  of 
mutual  compliance,  which  all  men  yield  to 


44 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


each  other,  without  constraint  to  themselves, 
and  which  is  extremely  flattering  to  all. 
Herein  it  is  that  painting  and  many  other 
agreeable  arts  have  laid  one  of  the  principal 
foundations  of  their  power.  And  since,  by 
its  influence  on  our  manners  and  our  pas- 
sions, it  is  of  such  great  consequence,  I shall 
here  venture  to  lay  down  a rule,  which  may 
inform  us  with  a good  degree  of  certainty 
when  we  are  to  attribute  the  power  of  the 
arts  to  imitation,  or  to  our  pleasure  in  the 
skill  of  the  imitator  merely,  and  when  to 
sympathy,  or  some  other  cause  in  conjunc- 
tion with  it.  When  the  object  represented 
in  poetry  or  painting  is  such  as  we  could 
have  no  desire  of  seeing  in  the  reality,  then  I 
may  be  sure  that  its  power  in  poetry  or 
painting  is  owing  to  the  power  of  imitation, 
and  to  no  cause  operating  in  the  thing  itself. 
So  it  is  with  most  of  the  pieces  which  the 
painters  call  still-life.  In  these,  a cottage,  a 
dunghill,  the  meanest  and  most  ordinary 
utensils  of  the  kitchen,  are  capable  of  giving 
us  pleasure.  But  when  the  object  of  the 
painting  or  poem  is  such  as  we  should  run  to 
see  if  real,  let  it  affect  us  with  what  odd  sort 
of  sense  it  will,  we  may  rely  upon  it,  that  the 
power  of  the  poem  or  picture  is  more  owing 
to  the  nature  of  the  thing  itself  than  to  the 
mere  effect  of  imitation,  or  to  a consideration 
of  the  skill  of  the  imitator,  however  excellent. 
Aristotle  has  spoken  so  much  and  so  solidly 
upon  the  force  of  imitation  in  his  Poetics, 
that  it  makes  any  further  discourse  upon 
this  subject  the  less  necessary. 

SEC.  XVII.— AMBITION. 

Although  imitation  is  one  of  the  great 
instruments  used  by  Providence  in  bringing 
our  nature  towards  its  perfection,  yet  if  men 
gave  themselves  up  to  imitation  entirely,  and 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


45 


each  followed  the  other,  and  so  on  in  an 
eternal  circle,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  there 
never  could  be  any  improvement  amongst 
them.  Men  must  remain  as  brutes  do,  the 
same  at  the  end  that  they  are  at  this  day, 
and  that  they  were  in  the  beginning  of  the 
world.  To  prevent  this,  God  has  planted  in 
man  a sense  of  ambition,  and  a satisfaction 
arising  from  the  contemplation  of  his  excel- 
ling his  fellows  in  something  deemed  valuable 
amongst  them.  It  is  this  passion  that  drives 
men  to  all  the  ways  we  see  in  use  of  signaliz- 
ing themselves,  and  that  tends  to  make 
whatever  excites  in  a man  the  idea  of  this 
distinction  so  very  pleasant.  It  has  been  so 
strong  as  to  make  very  miserable  men  take 
comfort,  that  they  were  supreme  in  misery ; 
and  certain  it  is,  that  where  we  cannot 
distinguish  ourselves  by  something  excellent, 
we  begin  to  take  a complacency  in  some 
singular  infirmities,  follies,  or  defects  of  one 
kind  or  other.  It  is  on  this  principle  that 
flattery  is  so  prevalent;  for  flattery  is  no 
more  than  what  raises  in  a man’s  mind  an 
idea  of  a preference  which  he  has  not.  Now, 
whatever,  either  on  good  or  upon  bad  grounds, 
tends  to  raise  a man  in  his  own  opinion,  pro- 
duces a sort  of  swelling  and  triumph,  that  is 
extremely  grateful  to  the  human  mind ; and 
this  swelling  is  never  more  perceived,  nor 
operates  with  more  force,  than  when  without 
danger  we  are  conversant  with  terrible 
objects,  the  mind  always  claiming  to  itself 
some  part  of  the  dignity  and  importance  of 
the  things  which  it  contemplates.  Hence 
proceeds  what  Longinus  has  observed  of  that 
glorying  and  sense  of  inward  greatness,  that 
always  fills  the  reader  of  such  passages  in 
poets  and  orators  as  are  sublime ; it  is  what 
every  man  must  have  felt  in  himself  upon 
such  occasions. 


46 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


SEC.  XVIII.— THE  RECAPITULATION. 

To  draw  the  whole  of  what  has  been  said 
into  a few  distinct  points: — The  passions 
which  belong  to  self-preservation,  turn  on 
pain  and  danger;  they  are  simply  painful 
when  their  causes  immediately  affect  us ; they 
are  delightful  when  we  have  an  idea  of  pain 
and  danger,  without  being  actually  in  such 
circumstances ; this  delight  I have  not  called 
pleasure,  because  it  turns  on  pain,  and  be- 
cause it  is  different  enough  from  any  idea  of 
positive  pleasure.  Whatever  excites  this 
delight,  I call  sublime.  The  passions  belong- 
ing to  self-preservation  are  the  strongest  of 
all  the  passions. 

The  second  head  to  which  the  passions  are 
referred  with  relation  to  their  final  cause,  is 
society.  There  are  two  sorts  of  societies. 
The  first  is,  the  society  of  sex.  The  passion 
belonging  to  this  is  called  love,  and  it  contains 
a mixture  of  lust ; its  object  is  the  beauty  of 
women.  The  other  is  the  great  society  with 
man  and  all  other  animals.  The  passion  sub- 
servient to  this  is  called  likewise  love,  but  it 
has  no  mixture  of  lust,  and  its  object  is  beauty ; 
which  is  a name  I shall  apply  to  all  such 
qualities  in  things  as  induce  in  us  a sense  of 
affection  and  tenderness,  or  some  other 
passion  the  most  nearly  resembling  these. 
The  passion  of  love  has  its  rise  in  positive 
pleasure ; it  is,  like  all  things  which  grow  out 
of  pleasure,  capable  of  being  mixed  with  a 
mode  of  uneasiness,  that  is,  when  an  idea  of 
its  object  is  excited  in  the  mind  with  an  idea 
at  the  same  time  of  having  irretrievably  lost 
it.  This  mixed  sense  of  pleasure  I have  not 
called  pain,  because  it  turns  upon  actual 
pleasure,  and  is,  in  its  cause  and  in  most 
of  its  effects,  of  a nature  altogether  different. 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


47 


Next  to  the  general  passion  we  have  for 
society,  to  a choice  in  which  we  are  directed 
by  the  pleasure  we  have  in  the  object,  the 
particular  passion  under  this  head  called 
sympathy  has  the  greatest  extent.  The 
nature  of  this  passion  is,  to  put  us  in  the  place 
of  another  in  whatever  circumstance  he  is 
in,  and  to  affect  us  in  like  manner : so  that 
this  passion  may,  as  the  occasion  requires, 
turn  either  on  pain  or  pleasure ; but  with  the  . 
modifications  mentioned  in  some  cases  in  Sec. 
11.  As  to  imitation  and  preference,  nothing 
more  need  be  said. 

SEC.  XIX.— THE  CONCLUSION. 

I believed  that  an  attempt  to  range  and 
methodize  some  of  our  most  leading  passions, 
would  be  a good  preparative  to  such  an 
inquiry  as  we  are  going  to  make  in  the  ensu- 
ing discourse.  The  passions  I have  mentioned 
are  almost  the  only  ones  which  it  can  be 
necessary  to  consider  in  our  present  design ; 
though  the  variety  of  the  passions  is  great, 
and  worthy  in  every  branch  of  that  variety  of 
an  attentive  investigation.  The  more  accur- 
ately we  search  into  the  human  mind,  the 
stronger  traces  we  everywhere  find  of  his  wis- 
dom who  made  it.  If  a discourse  on  the  use  of 
the  parts  of  the  body  may  be  considered  as  an 
hymn  to  the  Creator ; the  use  of  the  passions, 
which  are  the  organs  of  the  mind,  cannot  be 
barren  of  praise  to  him,  nor  unproductive  to 
ourselves  of  that  noble  and  uncommon  union 
of  science  and  admiration,  which  a contem- 
plation of  the  works  of  infinite  wisdom  alone 
can  afford  to  a rational  mind ; whilst,  refer- 
ring to  him  whatever  we  find  of  right  or  good 
or  fair  in  ourselves,  discovering  his  strength 
and  wisdom  even  in  our  own  weakness  and 
imperfection,  honoring  them  where  we  dis- 


48 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


cover  them  clearly,  and  adoring  their  pro- 
fundity where  we  are  lost  in  our  search,  we 
may  be  inquisitive  without  impertinence, 
and  elevated  without  pride ; we  may  be 
admitted,  if  I may  dare  to  say  so,  into 
the  councils  of  the  Almighty  by  a consid- 
eration of  his  works.  The  elevation  of  the 
mind  ought  to  he  the  principal  end  of  all  our 
studies,  which  if  they  do  not  in  some  measure 
effect,  they  are  of  very  little  service  to  us. 
But,  besides  this  great  purpose,  a considera- 
tion of  the  rational  of  our  passions  seems  to 
me  very  necessary  for  all  who  would  affect 
them  upon  solid  and  sure  principles.  It  is 
not  enough  to  know  them  in  general:  to 
affect  them,  after  a delicate  manner,  or  to 
judge  properly  of  any  work  designed  to  affect 
them,  we  should  know  the  exact  boundaries 
of  their  several  jurisdictions ; we  should  pur- 
sue them  through  all  their  variety  of  opera- 
tions, and  pierce  into  the  inmost,  and  what 
might  appear  inaccessible  parts  of  our  nature, 

Quod  latet  arcana  non  enarrabile  fibra. 

Without  all  this  it  is  possible  for  a man, 
after  a confused  manner,  sometimes  to  sat- 
isfy his  own  mind  of  the  truth  of  his  work ; 
but  he  can  never  have  a certain  determinate 
rule  to  go  by,  nor  can  he  ever  make  his  prop- 
ositions sufficiently  clear  to  others.  Poets, 
and  orators,  and  painters,  and  those  who  cul- 
tivate other  branches  of  the  liberal  arts,  have 
without  this  critical  knowledge  succeeded  well 
in  their  several  provinces,  and  will  succeed; 
as  among  artificers  there  are  many  machines 
made  and  even  invented  without  any  exact 
knowledge  of  the  principles  they  are  governed 
by.  It  is,  I own,  not  uncommon  to  be  wrong 
in  theory,  and  right  in  practice ; and  we  are 
happy  it  is  so.  Men  often  act  right  from 
their  feelings,  who  afterwards  reason  but  ill 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


49 


on  them  from  principle ; but  as  it  is  impossible 
to  avoid  an  attempt  at  such  reasoning,  and 
equally  impossible  to  prevent  its  having  some 
influence  on  our  practice,  surely  it  is  worth 
taking  some  pains  to  have  it  just  and  founded 
on  the  basis  of  sure  experience.  We  might 
expect  that  the  artists  themselves  would  have 
been  our  surest  guides;  but  the  artists  have 
been  too  much  occupied  in  the  practice : the 
philosophers  have  done  little ; and  what  they 
have  done,  was  mostly  with  a view  to  their 
own  schemes  and  systems : and  as  for  those 
called  critics,  they  have  generally  sought  the 
rule  of  the  arts  in  the  wrong  place;  they 
sought  it  among  poems,  pictures,  engravings, 
statues,  and  buildings.  But  art  can  never 
give  the  rules  that  make  an  art.  This  is,  I 
believe,  the  reason  why  artists  in  general,  and 
poets  principally,  have  been  confined  in  so 
narrow  a circle;  they  have  been  rather  imi- 
tators of  one  another  than  of  nature;  and 
this  with  so  faithful  an  uniformity,  and  to 
so  remote  an  antiquity,  that  it  is  hard  to  say 
who  gave  the  first  model.  Critics  follow 
them,  and  therefore  can  do  little  as  guides. 
I can  judge  but  poorly  of  anything,  whilst  I 
measure  it  by  no  other  standard  than  itself. 
The  true  standard  of  the  arts  is  in  every 
man’s  power;  and  an  easy  observation  of 
the  most  common,  sometimes  of  the  meanest 
things  in  nature,  will  give  the  truest  lights, 
where  the  greatest  sagacity  and  industry 
that  slights  such  observation,  must  have  us 
in  the  dark,  or,  what  is  worse,  amuse  and 
mislead  us  by  false  lights.  In  an  inquiry  it  is 
almost  everything  to  be  once  in  a right  road. 
I am  satisfied  I have  done  but  little  by  these 
observations  considered  in  themselves;  and 
I never  should  have  taken  the  pains  to  digest 
them,  much  less  should  I have  ever  ventured 
to  publish  them,  if  I was  not  convinced  that 
4 


50 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


nothing  tends  more  to  the  corruption  of 
science  than  to  suffer  it  to  stagnate.  These 
waters  must  be  troubled  before  they  can  exert 
their  virtues.  A man  who  works  beyond  the 
surface  of  things,  though  he  may  be  wrong 
himself,  yet  he  clears  the  way  for  others,  and 
may  chance  to  make  even  his  errors  subserv- 
ient to  the  cause  of  truth.  In  the  following 
parts  I shall  inquire  what  things  they  are 
that  cause  in  us  the  affections  of  the  sublime 
and  beautiful,  as  in  this  I have  considered 
the  affections  themselves.  I only  desire  one 
favor,  that  no  part  of  this  discourse  may  be 
judged  of  by  itself,  and  independently  of  the 
rest ; for  I am  sensible  I have  not  disposed  my 
materials  to  abide  the  test  of  a captious  con- 
troversy, but  of  a sober  and  even  forgiving 
examination : that  they  are  not  armed  at  all 
points  for  battle,  but  dressed  to  visit  those  who 
will  give  a peaceful  entrance  to  truth. 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  AND 
BEAUTIFUL. 


PART  II.— SEC.  I.— ON  THE  PASSION 
CAUSED  BY  THE  SUBLIME. 

The  passion  caused  by  the  great  and  sub- 
lime in  nature , when  those  causes  operate 
most  powerfully,  is  astonishment ; and  aston- 
ishment is  that  state  of  the  soul,  in  which  all 
its  motions  are  suspended,  with  some  degree 
of  horror.  In  this  case  the  mind  is  so  entirely 
filled  with  its  object,  that  it  cannot  entertain 
any  other,  nor  by  consequence  reason  on  that 
object  which  employs  it.  Hence  arises  the 
great  power  of  the  sublime,  that  far  from  be- 
ing produced  by  them,  it  anticipates  our  rea- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


51 


sonings,  and  hurries  us  on  by  an  irresistible 
force.  Astonishment,  as  I have  said,  is  the 
effect  of  the  sublime  in  its  highest  degree; 
the  inferior  effects  are  admiration,  reverence 
and  respect. 


SEC.  II.— TERROR 

No  passion  so  effectually  robs  the  mind  of 
all  its  powers  of  acting  and  reasoning  as  fear. 
For  fear  being  an  apprehension  of  pain  or 
death,  it  operates  in  a manner  that  resembles 
actual  pain.  Whatever  therefore  is  terrible, 
with  regard  to  sight,  is  sublime  too,  whether 
this  cause  of  terror  be  endued  with  greatness 
of  dimensions  or  not ; for  it  is  impossible  to 
look  on  anything  as  trifling,  or  contemptible, 
that  may  be  dangerous.  There  are  many  ani- 
mals, who  though  far  from  being  large,  are 
yet  capable  of  raising  ideas  of  the  sublime, 
because  they  are  considered  as  objects  of  ter- 
ror; as  serpents  and  poisonous  animals  of 
almost  all  kinds.  And  to  things  of  great  di- 
mensions, if  we  annex  an  adventitious  idea  of 
terror,  they  become  without  comparison 
greater.  A level  plain  of  a vast  extent  on 
land,  is  certainly  no  mean  idea ; the  prospect 
of  such  a plain  may  be  as  extensive  as  a pros- 
pect of  the  ocean : but  can  it  ever  fill  the 
mind  with  anything  so  great  as  the  ocean 
itself  ? This  is  owing  to  several  causes ; but 
it  is  owing  to  none  more  than  this,  that  the 
ocean  is  an  object  of  no  small  terror.  Indeed 
terror  is  in  all  cases  whatsoever,  either  more 
openly  or  latently,  the  ruling  principle  of  the 
sublime.  Several  languages  bear  a testimony 
to  the  affinity  of  these  ideas.  They  frequently 
use  the  same  word,  to  signify  indifferently 
the  modes  of  astonishment  or  admiration  and 
those  of  terror.  6aju/3og  is  in  Greek,  either  fear 
or  wonder;  decvog  is  terrible  or  respectable; 


52 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


cudeo9  to  reverence  or  to  fear.  Vereor  in 
Latin,  is  what  aideu  is  in  Greek.  The  Romans 
used  the  verb  stupeo , a term  which  strongly 
marks  the  state  of  an  astonished  mind,  to  ex- 
press the  effect  either  of  simple  fear,  or  of 
astonishment;  the  word  attonitus  (thunder- 
struck) is  equally  expressive  of  the  alliance 
of  these  ideas ; and  do  not  the  French  etonne- 
ment , and  the  English  astonishment  and 
amazement , point  out  as  clearly  the  kindred 
emotions  which  attend  fear  and  wonder  ? 
They  who  have  a more  general  knowledge  of 
languages,  could  produce,  I make  no  doubt, 
many  other  and  equally  striking  examples. 

SEC.  III.— OBSCURITY. 

To  make  anything  very  terrible,  obscurity 
seems  in  general  to  be  necessary.  When  we 
know  the  full  extent  of  any  danger,  when  we 
can  accustom  our  eyes  to  it,  a great  deal  of 
the  apprehension  vanishes.  Every  one  will 
be  sensible  of  this,  who  considers  how  greatly 
night  adds  to  our  dread,  in  all  cases  of  dan- 
ger, and  how  much  the  notions  of  ghosts  and 
goblins,  of  w’hich  none  can  form  clear  ideas, 
affect  minds  which  give  credit  to  the  popular 
tales  concerning  such  sorts  of  beings.  Those 
despotic  governments,  which  are  founded  on 
the  passions  of  men,  and  principally  upon 
the  passion  of  fear,  keep  their  chief  as  much 
as  may  be  from  the  public  eye.  The  policy 
has  been  the  same  in  many  cases  of  religion. 
Almost  all  the  heathen  temples  were  dark. 
Even  in  the  barbarous  temples  of  the  Ameri- 
cans at  this  day,  they  keep  their  idol  in  a dark 
part  of  the  hut,  which  is  consecrated  to  his 
worship.  For  this  purpose  too  the  Druids 
performed  all  their  ceremonies  in  the  bosom 
of  the  darkest  woods,  and  in  the  shade  of  the 
oldest  and  most  spreading  oaks.  No  person 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


53 


seems  better  to  have  understood  the  secret  of 
heightening,  or  of  setting  terrible  things,  if  I 
may  use  the  expression,  in  their  strongest 
light,  by  the  force  of  a judicious  obscurity, 
than  Milton.  His  description  of  death  in  the 
second  book  is  admirably  studied ; it  is  aston- 
ishing with  what  a gloomy  pomp,  with  what 
a significant  and  expressive  uncertainty  of 
strokes  and  coloring,  he  has  finished  the  por- 
trait of  the  king  of  terrors. 

The  other  shape. 

If  shape  it  might  be  call'd  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable , in  member,  joint,  or  limb; 

Or  substance  might  le  call'd  that  shadow  seem'd. 

For  each  seem'd  either;  black  he  stood  as  night ; 

Fierce  as  ten  furies;  terrible  as  hell; 

And  shook  a deadly  dart.  What  seem'd  his  head 
The  likeness  of  a kingly  crown  had  on. 

In  this  description  all  is  dark,  uncertain, 
confused,  terrible,  and  sublime  to  the  last 
degree. 

SEC.  IV.— OF  THE  DIFFERENCE  BE- 
TWEEN CLEARNESS  AND  OBSCUR- 
ITY WITH  REGARD  TO  THE  PAS- 
SIONS. 

It  is  one  thing  to  make  an  idea  clear,  and 
another  to  make  it  affecting  to  the  imagina- 
tion. If  I make  a drawing  of  a palace,  or  a 
temple,  or  a landscape,  I present  a very  clear 
idea  of  those  objects;  but  then  (allowing  for 
the  effect  of  imitation,  which  is  something) 
my  picture  can  at  most  affect  only  as  the  pal- 
ace, temple,  or  landscape,  would  have  affected 
in  the  reality.  On  the  other  hand,  the  most 
lively  and  spirited  verbal  description  I can 
give,  raises  a very  obscure  and  imperfect  idea 
of  such  objects;  but  then  it  is  in  my  power  to 
raise  a stronger  emotion  by  the  description 
than  I could  do  by  the  best  painting.  This 
experience  constantly  evinces.  The  proper 


54 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


manner  of  conveying  the  affections  of  the 
mind  from  one  to  another,  is  by  words ; there 
is  a great  insufficiency  in  all  other  methods  of 
communication ; and  so  far  is  a clearness  of 
imagery  from  being  absolutely  necessary  to 
an  influence  upon  the  passions,  that  they 
may  be  considerably  operated  upon,  without 
presenting  any  image  at  all,  by  certain  sounds 
adapted  to  that  purpose ; of  which  we  have  a 
sufficient  proof  in  the  acknowledged  and 
powerful  effects  of  instrumental  music.  In 
reality,  a great  clearness  helps  but  little  tow- 
ards affecting  the  passions,  as  it  is  in  some 
sort  an  enemy  to  all  enthusiasms  whatsoever. 

SEC.  [IV].— THE  SAME  SUBJECT  CON- 
TINUED. 

There  are  two  verses  in  Horace’s  Art  of 
Poetry  that  seems  to  contradict  this  opinion, 
for  which  reason  I shall  take  a little  more 
pains  in  clearing  it  up.  The  verses  are, 

Segnius  irritant  animos  demissa  per  aures, 

Suam  quae  sunt  oeults  subjecta  fidelibus. 

On  this  the  Abbe  du  Bos  founds  a criticism, 
wherein  he  gives  painting  the  preference  td 
poetry  in  the  article  of  moving  the  passions ; 
principally  on  account  of  the  greater  clear- 
ness of  the  ideas  it  represents.  I believe  this 
excellent  judge  was  led  into  this  mistake  (if 
it  be  a mistake)  by  his  system,  to  which  he 
found  it  more  conformable  than  I imagine  it 
will  be  found  by  experience.  I know  several 
who  admire  and  love  painting,  and  yet  who 
regard  the  objects  of  their  admiration  in  that 
art  with  coolness  enough  in  comparison  of 
that  warmth  with  which  they  are  animated 
by  affecting  pieces  of  poetry  or  rhetoric. 
Among  the  common  sort  of  people,  I never 
could  perceive  that  painting  had  much  influ- 
ence on  their  passions.  It  is  true,  that  the 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


55 


best  sorts  of  painting,  as  well  as  the  best 
sorts  of  poetry,  are  not  much  understood  in 
that  sphere.  But  it  is  most  certain,  that 
their  passions  are  very  strongly  roused  by  a 
fanatic  preacher,  or  by  the  ballads  of  Chevy- 
chase,  or  the  Children  in  the  Wood,  and  by 
other  little  popular  poems  and  tales  that  are 
current  in  that  rank  of  life.  I do  not  know  of 
any  paintings,  bad  or  good,  that  produce  the 
same  effect.  So  that  poetry,  with  all  its  ob- 
scurity, has  a more  general  as  well  as  a more 
powerful  dominion  over  the  passions  than  the 
other  art.  And  I think  there  are  reasons  in 
nature,  why  the  obscure  idea,  when  properly 
conveyed,  should  be  more  affecting  than  the 
clear.  It  is  our  ignorance  of  things  that 
causes  all  our  admiration,  and  chiefly  excites 
our  passions.  Knowledge  and  acquaintance 
make  the  most  striking  causes  affect  but 
little.  It  is  thus  with  the  vulgar;  and  all 
men  are  as  the  vulgar  in  what  they  do  not 
understand.  The  ideas  of  eternity,  and  infin- 
ity, are  among  the  most  affecting  we  have : 
and  perhaps  there  is  nothing  of  which  we 
really  understand  so  little,  as  of  infinity  and 
eternity.  We  do  not  anywhere  meet  a more 
sublime  description  than  this  justly -celebrated 
one  of  Milton,  wherein  he  gives  the  portrait 
of  Satan  with  a dignity  so  suitable  to  the  sub- 
ject: 

He  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent 
Stood  like  a toioer  ; his  form  had  yet  not  lost 
All  her  original  brightness , nor  appear'd 
Less  than  archangel  ruin'd , and  th'  excess 
Of  glory  obscur'd  ; as  when  the  sun  new  ris'n 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air 
Shorn  of  his  beams  ; or  from  behind  the  moon 
In  dim  eclipse  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  ha'f  the  nations and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs. 

Here  is  a very  noble  picture;  and  in  what 
does  this  poetical  picture  consist?  in  images 


56 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


of  a tower,  an  archangel,  the  sun  rising 
through  mists,  or  in  an  eclipse,  the  ruin  of 
monarchs,  and  the  revolutions  of  kingdoms 
The  mind  is  hurried  out  of  itself,  by  a crowd 
of  great  and  confused  images;  which  affect 
because  they  are  crowded  and  confused.  For 
separate  them,  and  you  lose  much  of  the 
greatness;  and  join  them,  and  you  infallibly 
lose  the  clearness.  The  images  raised  by  poe- 
try are  always  of  this  obscure  kind ; though 
in  general  the  effects  of  poetry  are  by  no 
means  to  be  attributed  to  the  images  it  raises ; 
which  point  we  shall  examine  more  at  large 
hereafter.  But  painting,  when  we  have  al- 
lowed for  the  pleasure  of  imitation,  can  only 
affect  simply  by  the  images  it  presents ; and 
even  in  painting,  a judicious  obscurity  in  some 
things  contributes  to  the  effect  of  the  picture ; 
because  the  images  in  painting  are  exactly 
similar  to  those  in  nature ; and  in  nature  dark, 
confused,  uncertain  images  have  a greater 
power  on  the  fancy  to  form  the  grander  pas- 
sions, than  those  have  which  are  more  clear 
and  determinate.  But  where  and  when  this 
observation  may  be  applied  to  practice,  and 
how  far  it  shall  be  extended,  will  be  better  de- 
ducted from  the  nature  of  the  subject,  and 
from  the  occasion,  than  from  any  rules  that 
can  be  given. 

I am  sensible  that  this  idea  has  met  with 
opposition,  and  is.  likely  still  to  be  rejected  by 
several.  But  let  it  be  considered,  that  hardly 
anything  can  strike  the  mind  with  its  great- 
ness, which  does  not  make  some  sort  of  ap- 
proach towards  infinity;  which  nothing  can 
do  whilst  we  are  able  to  perceive  its  bounds ; 
but  to  see  an  object  distinctly,  and  to  perceive 
its  bounds,  is  one  and  the  same  thing.  A 
clear  idea  is  therefore  another  name  for  a lit- 
tle idea.  There  is  a passage  in  the  book  of  Job 
amazingly  sublime,  and  this  sublimity  is  prin- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


57 


cipally  due  to  the  terrible  uncertainty  of  the 
thing  described : In  thoughts  from  the  visions 
of  the  night , when  deep  sleep  falletli  upon  men , 
fear  came  upon  me  and  trembling , which  made 
all  my  bones  to  shake.  Then  a spirit  passed 
before  my  face.  The  hair  of  my  flesh  stood 
up.  It  stood  still , but  I could  not  discern  the 
form  thereof ; an  image  was  before  mine  eyes  ; 
there  was  silence  ; a'wd  I heard  a voice , — Shall 
mortal  man  be  more  just  than  Godf  We  are 
first  prepared  with  the  utmost  solemnity  for 
the  vision;  we  are  first  terrified,  before  we 
are  let  even  into  the  obscure  cause  of  our 
emotion : but  when  this  grand  cause  of  terror 
makes  its  appearance,  what  is  it?  is  it  not 
wrapt  up  in  the  shades  of  its  own  incompre- 
hensible darkness,  more  awful,  more  striking, 
more  terrible,  than  the  liveliest  description, 
than  the  clearest  painting,  could  possibly 
represent  it?  When  painters  have  attempted 
to  give  us  clear  representations  of  these  very 
fanciful  and  terrible  ideas,  they  have,  I think, 
almost  always  failed;  insomuch  that  I have 
been  at  a loss,  in  all  the  pictures  I have  seen 
of  hell,  whether  the  painter  did  not  intend 
something  ludicrous.  Several  painters  have 
handled  a subject  of  this  kind  with  a view  of 
assembling  as  many  horrid  phantoms  as  their 
imaginations  could  suggest ; but  all  the  de- 
signs I have  chanced  to  meet  of  the  tempta- 
tions of  St.  Anthony,  were  rather  a sort  of 
odd  wild  grotesques,  than  anything  capable 
of  producing  a serious  passion.  In  all  these 
subjects  poetry  is  very  happy.  Its  appari- 
tions, its  chimeras,  its  harpies,  its  allegorical 
figures,  are  grand  and  affecting ; and  though 
Yirgil’s  Fame,  and  Homer’s  Discord,  are  ob- 
scure, they  are  magnificent  figures.  These 
figures  in  painting  would  be  clear  enough,  but 
I fear  they  might  become  ridiculous. 


58 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


SEC.  V.—  POWER. 

Besides  those  things  which  directly  suggest 
the  idea  of  danger,  and  those  which  produce 
a similar  effect  from  a mechanical  cause,  I 
know  of  nothing  sublime,  which  is  not  some 
modification  of  power.  And  this  branch  rises, 
as  naturally  as  the  other  two  branches,  from 
terror,  the  common  stock  of  everything  that  is 
sublime.  The  idea  of  power  at  first  view  seems 
of  the  class  of  those  indifferent  ones,  which 
may  equally  belong  to  pain  or  to  pleasure. 
But  in  reality,  the  affection  arising  from  the 
idea  of  vast  power,  is  extremely  remote  from 
that  neutral  character.  For  first,  we  must 
remember,  that  the  idea  of  pain,  in  its  high- 
est degree,  is  much  stronger  than  the  highest 
degree  of  pleasure ; and  that  it  preserves  the 
same  superiority  through  all  the  subordinate 
gradations.  From  hence  it  is,  that  where  the 
chances  for  equal  degrees  of  suffering  or  en- 
joyment are  in  any  sort  equal,  the  idea  of  the 
suffering  must  always  be  prevalent.  And  in- 
deed the  ideas  of  pain,  and  above  all  of  death, 
are  so  very  affecting,  that  whilst  we  remain 
in  the  presence  of  whatever  is  supposed  to 
have  the  power  of  inflicting  either,  it  is  im- 
possible to  be  perfectly  free  from  terror. 
Again,  we  know  by  experience,  that  for  the 
enjoyment  of  pleasure,  no  great  efforts  of  pow- 
er are  at  all  necessary ; nay,  we  know,  that 
such  efforts  would  go  a great  way  towards 
destroying  our  satisfaction ; for  pleasure  must 
be  stolen,  and  not  forced  upon  us;  pleasure 
follows  the  will ; and  therefore  we  are  gen- 
erally affected  with  it  by  many  things  of  a 
force  greatly  inferior  to  our  own.  But  pain 
is  always  inflicted  by  a power  in  some  way 
superior,  because  we  never  submit  to  pain 
willingly.  So  that  strength,  violence,  pain, 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


59 


and  terror,  are  ideas  that  rush  in  upon  the 
mind  together.  Look  at  a man,  or  any  other 
animal  of  prodigious  strength,  and  what  is 
your  idea  before  reflection?  Is  it  that  this 
strength  will  be  subservient  to  you,  to  your 
ease,  to  your  pleasure,  to  your  interest  in 
any  sense?  No;  the  emotion  you  feel  is,  lest 
this  enormous  strength  should  be  employ- 
ed to  the  purposes  of  rapine  and  destruc- 
tion. That  power  derives  all  its  sublim- 
ity from  the  terror  with  which  it  is  gen- 
erally accompanied,  will  appear  evidently 
from  its  effect  in  the  very  few  cases  in  which 
it  may  he  possible  to  strip  a considerable  de- 
gree of  strength  of  its  ability  to  hurt.  When 
you  do  this,  you  spoil  it  of  everything  sub- 
lime, and  it  immediately  becomes  contempt- 
ible. An  ox  is  a creature  of  vast  strength ; 
but  he  is  an  innocent  creature,  extremely 
serviceable,  and  not  at  all  dangerous;  for 
which  reason  the  idea  of  an  ox  is  by  no  means 
grand.  A bull  is  strong  too,  but  his  strength 
is  of  another  kind ; often  very  destructive, 
seldom  (at  least  amongst  us)  of  any  use  in 
our  business ; the  idea  of  a bull  is  therefore 
great,  and  it  has  frequently  a place  in  sublime 
descriptions,  and  elevating  comparisons. 
Let  us  look  at  another  strong  animal  in  the 
two  distinct  lights  in  which  we  may  consider 
him.  The  horse  in  the  light  of  an  useful 
beast,  fit  for  the  plough,  the  road,  the  draft ; 
in  every  social  useful  light,  the  horse  has 
nothing  sublime:  but  is  it  thus  that  we  are 
affected  with  him,  whose  neck  is  clothed  with 
thunder , the  glory  of  ivhose  nostrils  is  terrible , 
who  swalloweth  the  ground  with  fierceness  and 
rage , neither  believeth  that  it  is  the  sound  of 
the  trumpet  f In  this  description  the  useful 
character  of  the  horse  entirely  disappears, 
and  the  terrible  and  sublime  blaze  out  to- 
gether. We  have  continually  about  us  ani- 


60 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


mals  of  a strength  that  is  considerable,  but 
not  pernicious.  Amongst  these  we  never  look 
for  the  sublime;  it  comes  upon  us  in  the 
gloomy  forest,  and  in  the  howling  wilderness, 
in  the  form  of  the  lion,  the  tiger,  the  panther, 
the  rhinoceros.  Whenever  strength  is  only 
useful,  and  employed  for  our  benefit  or  our 
pleasure,  then  it  is  never  sublime ; for  noth- 
ing can  act  agreeably  to  us,  that  does  not  act 
in  conformity  to  our  will : but  to  act  agreea- 
bly to  our  will,  it  must  be  subject  to  us,  and 
therefore  can  never  be  the  cause  of  a grand 
and  commanding  conception.  The  description 
of  the  wild  ass,  in  Job,  is  worked  up  into  no 
small  sublimity,  merely  by  insisting  on  his 
freedom,  and  his  setting  mankind  at  defiance ; 
otherwise  the  description  of  such  an  animal 
could  have  nothing  noble  in  it.  Who  hath 
loosed  (says  he)  the  bands  of  the  wild  ass  % 
whose  house  I have  made  the  wilderness , and 
the  barren  land  his  dwellings.  He  scorneth 
the  multitude  of  the  city , neither  regardeth  he 
the  voice  of  the  driver.  The  range  of  the  moun- 
tains is  his  pasture.  The  magnificent  descrip- 
tion of  the  unicorn  and  of  leviathan  in  the 
same  book,  is  full  of  the  same  heightening 
circumstances:  Will  the  unicorn  be  willing 

to  serve  thee  ? canst  thou  bind  the  unicorn  with 
his  band  in  the  f urrow  f wilt  thou  trust  him 
because  his  strength  is  great  % — Canst  thou 
draw  out  leviathan  with  an  hook  f will  he 
make  a covenant  with  thee  % wilt  thou  take 
him  for  a servant  forever  % shall  not  one  be 
cast  down  even  at  the  sight  ofhimf  In  short, 
wheresoever  we  find  strength,  and  in  what 
light  soever  we  look  upon  power,  we  shall  all 
along  observe  the  sublime  the  concomitant  of 
terror,  and  contempt  the  attendant  on  a 
strength  that  is  subservient  and  innoxious. 
The  race  of  dogs  in  many  of  their  kinds  have 
generally  a competent  degree  of  strength  and 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


61 


swiftness;  and  they  exert  these  and  other 
valuable  qualities  which  they  possess,  greatly 
to  our  convenience  and  pleasure.  Dogs  are 
indeed  the  most  social,  affectionate,  and  amia- 
ble animals  of  the  whole  brute  creation ; but 
love  approaches  much  nearer  to  contempt 
than  is  commonly  imagined ; and  accordingly 
though  we  caress  dogs,  we  borrow  from  them 
an  appellation  of  the  most  despicable  kind, 
when  we  employ  terms  of  reproach ; and  this 
appellation  is  the  common  mark  of  the  last 
vileness  and  contempt  in  every  language. 
Wolves  have  not  more  strength  than  several 
species  of  dogs ; but,  on  account  of  their  un- 
manageable fierceness,  the  idea  of  a wolf  is 
not  despicable;  it  is  not  excluded  from 
grand  descriptions  and  similitudes.  Thus 
we  are  affected  by  strength,  which  is  nat- 
ural power.  The  power  which  arises  from 
institution  in  kings  and  commanders,  has 
the  same  connection  with  terror.  Sover- 
eigns are  frequently  addressed  with  the  title 
of  dread  majesty.  And  it  may  be  observed, 
that  young  persons,  little  acquainted  with 
the  world,  and  who  have  not  been  used  to  ap- 
proach men  in  power,  are  commonly  struck 
with  an  awe  which  takes  away  the  free  use 
of  their  faculties.  When  I prepared  my  seat 
in  the  street  (says  Job)  the  young  men  saw  me , 
and  hid  themselves.  Indeed,  so  natural  is  this 
timidity  with  regard  to  power,  and  so  strongly 
does  it  inhere  in  our  constitution,  that  very 
few  are  able  to  conquer  it,  but  by  mixing 
much  in  the  business  of  the  great  world,  or 
by  using  no  small  violence  to  their  natural 
dispositions.  I know  some  people  are  of  opin- 
ion, that  no  awe,  no  degree  of  terror,  accom- 
panies the  idea  of  power : and  have  hazarded 
to  affirm,  that  we  can  contemplate  the  idea  of 
God  himself,  without  any  such  emotion.  I 
purposely  avoided,  when  I first  considered 


62 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


this  subject,  to  introduce  the  idea  of  that 
great  and  tremendous  Being,  as  an  example 
in  an  argument  so  light  as  this ; though  it  fre- 
quently occurred  to  me,  not  as  an  objection  to, 
but  as  a strong  confirmation  of,  my  notions 
in  this  matter.  I hope,  in  what  I am  going  to 
say,  I shall  avoid  presumption  where  it  is 
almost  impossible  for  any  mortal  to  speak 
with  strict  propriety.  I say  then,  that  whilst 
we  consider  the  Godhead  merely  as  he  is  an 
object  of  the  understanding,  which  forms  a 
complex  idea  of  power,  wisdom,  justice, 
goodness,  all  stretched  to  a degree  far  exceed- 
ing the  bounds  of  our  comprehension,  whilst 
we  consider  the  Divinity  in  this  refined  and 
abstracted  light,  the  imagination  and  passions 
are  little  or  nothing  affected.  But  because 
we  are  bound,  by  the  condition  of  our  nature, 
to  ascend  to  these  pure  and  intellectual  ideas, 
through  the  medium  of  sensible  images,  and 
to  judge  of  these  divine  qualities  by  their  evi- 
dent acts  and  exertions,  it  becomes  extremely 
hard  to  disentangle  our  idea  of  the  cause 
from  the  effect  by  which  we  are  led  to  know 
it.  Thus  when  we  contemplate  the  Deity, 
his  attributes  and  their  operation  coming 
united  on  the  mind,  form  a sort  of  sensible 
image,  and  as  such  are  capable  of  affecting  the 
imagination.  Now,  though  in  a just  idea  of 
the  Deity,  perhaps  none  of  his  attributes 
are  predominant,  yet  to  our  imagination,  his 
power  is  by  far  the  most  striking.  Some  re- 
flection, some  comparing,  is  necessary  to  sat- 
isfy us  of  his  wisdom,  his  justice,  and  his 
goodness.  To  be  struck  with  his  power,  it  is 
only  necessary  that  we  should  open  our  eyes. 
But  whilst  we  contemplate  so  vast  an  object, 
under  the  arm,  as  it  were,  of  almighty  power, 
and  invested  upon  every  side  with  omnipres- 
ence, we  shrink  into  the  minuteness  of  our 
own  nature,  and  are,  in  a manner,  annihilated 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


63 


before  him.  And  though  a consideration  of 
his  other  attributes  may  relieve  in  some  meas- 
ure our  apprehensions,  yet  no  conviction  of 
the  justice  with  which  it  is  exercised,  nor  the 
mercy  with  which  it  is  tempered,  can  wholly 
remove  the  terror  that  naturally  arises  from 
a force  which  nothing  can  withstand.  If  we 
rejoice,  w*e  rejoice  with  trembling:  and  even 
whilst  we  are  receiving  benefits,  we  cannot 
but  shudder  at  a power  which  can  confer  ben- 
efits of  such  mighty  importance.  When  the 
prophet  David  contemplated  the  wonders  of 
wisdom  and  power  which  are  displayed  in  the 
economy  of  man,  he  seems  to  be  struck  with 
a sort  of  divine  horror,  and  cries  out,  Fear- 
fully and  wonderfully  am  I made ! An  hea- 
then poet  has  a sentiment  of  a similar  nature ; 
Horace  looks  upon  it  as  the  last  effort  of  phi- 
losophical fortitude,  to  behold  without  terror 
and  amazement,  this  immense  and  glorious 
fabric  of  the  universe : 

Hunc  solem,  et  stellas,  et  decedentia  certis 
Tempora  momentis,  sunt  qui  formidine  nulla 
Imbuti  spectant. 

Lucretius  is  a poet  not  to  be  suspected  of  giv- 
ing way  to  superstitious  terrors ; yet  when  he 
supposes  the  whole  mechanism  of  nature 
laid  open  by  the  master  of  his  philosophy,  his 
transport  on  this  magnificent  view,  which  he 
had  represented  in  the  colors  of  such  bold  and 
lively  poetry,  is  overcast  with  a shade  of 
secret  dread  and  horror : 

His  tibi  merebus  qucedam  divina  voluptas 
Percipit , atque  horror,  quod  sic  Natura  tua  vi 
Tam  manifesta  patet  ex  omni  parte  retecta. 

But  scripture  alone  can  supply  ideas  answera- 
ble to  the  majesty  of  this  subject.  In  the 
scripture,  whenever  Gfod  is  represented  as 
appearing  or  speaking,  everything  terrible  in 
nature  is  called  up  to  heighten  the  awe  and 


64 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


solemnity  of  the  divine  presence.  The  psalms, 
and  the  prophetical  books,  are  crowded  with 
instances  of  this  kind.  The  earth  shook 
(says  the  psalmist),  the  heavens  also  dropped 
at  the  presence  of  the  Lord.  And  what  is  re- 
markable, the  painting  preserves  the  same 
character,  not  only  when  he  is  supposed  de- 
scending to  take  vengeance  upon  the  wicked, 
but  even  when  he  exerts  the  like  plenitude  of 
power  in  acts  of  beneficence  to  mankind. 
Tremble  thou  earth ! at  the  presence  of  the 
Lord  ; at  the  presence  of  the  God  of  Jacob  ; 
which  turned  the  rock  into  standing  water,  the 
flint  into  a fountain  of  waters ! It  were  end- 
less to  enumerate  all  the  passages,  both  in  the 
sacred  and  profane  writers,  which  establish 
the  general  sentiment  of  mankind,  concerning 
the  inseparable  union  of  a sacred  and  rever- 
ential awe,  with  our  ideas  of  the  divinity. 
Hence  the  common  maxim,  Primus  in  orbe 
deos  fecit  timor.  This  maxim  may  be,  as  I 
believe  it  is,  false  with  regard  to  the  origin  of 
religion.  The  maker  of  the  maxim  saw  how 
inseparable  these  ideas  were,  without  consid- 
ering that  the  notion  of  some  great  power 
must  be  always  precedent  to  our  dread  of  it. 
But  this  dread  must  necessarily  follow  the 
idea  of  such  a power,  when  it  is  once  excited 
in  the  mind.  It  is  on  this  principle  that  true 
religion  has,  and  must  have,  so  large  a mixt- 
ure of  salutary  fear ; and  that  false  religions 
have  generally  nothing  else  but  fear  to  sup- 
port them.  Before  the  Christian  religion 
had,  as  it  were,  humanized  the  idea  of  the 
Divinity,  and  brought  it  somewhat  nearer  to 
us,  there  was  very  little  said  of  the  love  of  God. 
The  followers  of  Plato  have  something  of  it, 
and  only  something ; the  other  writers  of  pa- 
gan antiquity,  whether  poets  or  philosophers, 
nothing  at  all.  And  they  who  consider  with 
what  infinite  attention,  by  what  a disregard 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


65 


of  every  perishable  object,  through  what  long 
habits  of  piety  and  contemplation  it  is,  any 
man  is  able  to  attain  an  entire  love  and  de- 
votion to  the  Deity,  will  easily  perceive,  that 
it  is  not  the  first,  the  most  natural,  and 
the  most  striking  effect  which  proceeds 
from  that  idea.  Thus  we  have  traced  power 
through  its  several  gradations  into  the  high- 
est of  all,  where  our  imagination  is  finally 
lost ; and  we  find  terror,  quite  throughout  the 
progress,  its  inseparable  companion,  and 
growing  along  with  it,  as  far  as  w~e  can  possi- 
bly trace  them.  Now  as  power  is  undoubtedly 
a capital  source  of  the  sublime,  this  will 
point  out  evidently  from  whence  its  energy  is 
derived,  and  to  what  class  of  ideas  we  ought  to 
unite  it. 


SEC.  VI.— PRIVATION. 

All  general  privations  are  great,  because 
they  are  all  terrible ; Vacuity , Darkness,  Soli- 
tude, and  Silence.  With  what  a fire  of  imag- 
ination, yet  with  what  severity  of  judgment, 
has  Virgil  amassed  all  these  circumstances, 
where  he  knows  that  all  the  images  of  a tre- 
mendous dignity  ought  to  be  united,  at  the 
mouth  of  hell ! where,  before  he  unlocks  the 
secrets  of  the  great  deep,  he  seems  to  be 
seized  with  a religious  horror,  and  to  retire 
astonished  at  the  boldness  of  his  own  design : 


Di  quibus  imperium  est  animarum,  umbrceque — silentes ! A 
Et  Chaos , et  Plegethon  ! loca  noote  silentia  late  f 
Sit  michi  fas  audita  loqui  ! sit  numine  vestro 
Pandere  res  alta  terra  et  caligine  mersas  ! 
lbant  obscuri,  sola  sub  nocte,  per  umbram, 

Perque  domos  Ditis  vacuas,  et  inania  regna. 

Ye  subterraneous  gods  ! whose  awful  sway 
The  gliding  ghosts,  and  silent  shades  obey ,* 

O Chaos , hear  ! and  Phlegethon  profound  ! 

Whose  solemn  empire  stretches  wide  around  ! 


66 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


Give  me,  ye  great  tremendous  powers , to  tell 
Of  scenes  and  wonders  in  the  depth  of  hell : 

Give  me  your  mighty  secrets  to  display 
From  those  black  realms  of  darkness  to  the  day.— Pitt. 
Obscure  they  went  through  dreary  shades  that  led 
Along  the  waste  dominions  of  the  dead. — Dryden. 


SEC.  VII. —VASTNESS. 

Greatness  of  dimension  is  a powerful  cause 
of  the  sublime.  This  is  too  evident,  and  the 
observation  too  common,  to  need  any  illustra- 
tion ; it  is  not  so  common  to  consider  in  what 
ways  greatness  of  dimension,  vastness  of  ex- 
tent or  quantity,  has  the  most  striking  effect. 
For  certainly,  there  are  ways,  and  modes, 
wherein  the  same  quantity  of  extension  shall 
produce  greater  effects  than  it  is  found  to  do 
in  others.  Extension  is  either  in  length, 
height,  or  depth.  Of  these  the  length  strikes 
least ; an  hundred  yards  of  even  ground  will 
never  work  such  an  effect  as  a tower  an  hun- 
dred yards  high,  or  a rock  or  mountain  of 
that  altitude.  I am  apt  to  imagine  likewise, 
that  height  is  less  grand  than  depth;  and 
that  we  are  more  struck  at  looking  down 
from  a precipice,  than  looking  up  at  an  ob- 
ject of  equal  height ; but  of  that  I am  not  very 
positive.  A perpendicular  has  more  force  in 
forming  the  sublime  than  an  inclined  plane ; 
and  the  effects  of  a rugged  and  broken  sur- 
face seem  stronger  than  where  it  is  smooth 
and  polished.  It  would  carry  us  out  of  our 
way  to  enter  in  this  place  into  the  cause  of 
these  appearances ; but  certain  it  is  they  af- 
ford a large  and  fruitful  field  of  speculation. 
However,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  add  to  these 
remarks  upon  magnitude,  that  as  the  great 
extreme  of  dimension  is  sublime,  so  the  last 
extreme  of  littleness  is  in  some  measure  sub- 
lime likewise ; when  we  attend  to  the  infinite 
divisibility  of  matter,  when  we  pursue  animal 
life  into  these  excessively  small,  and  yet  or- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


67 


ganized  beings,  that  escape  the  nicest  inquisi- 
tion of  the  sense,  when  we  push  our  discover- 
ies yet  downward,  and  consider  those  creat- 
ures so  many  degrees  yet  smaller,  and  the 
still  diminishing  scale  of  existence,  in  tracing 
which  the  imagination  is  lost  as  well  as  the 
sense,  we  become  amazed  and  confounded  at 
the  wonders  of  minuteness ; nor  can  we  dis- 
tinguish in  its  effect  this  extreme  of  littleness 
from  the  vast  itself.  For  division  must  be 
infinite  as  well  as  addition ; because  the  idea 
of  a perfect  unity  can  no  more  be  arrived  at, 
than  that  of  a complete  whole,  to  which  noth- 
ing may  be  added. 

SEC.  VIII.— INFINITY. 

Another  source  of  the  sublime  is  Infinity ; 
if  it  does  not  rather  belong  to  the  last.  Infin- 
ity has  a tendency  to  fill  the  mind  with  that 
sort  of  delightful  horror,  which  is  the  most 
genuine  effect,  and  truest  test  of  the  sublime. 
There  are  scarce  any  things  which  can  be- 
come the  objects  of  our  senses,  that  are  really 
and  in  their  own  nature  infinite.  But  the  eye 
not  being  able  to  perceive  the  bounds  of  many 
things,  they  seem  to  be  infinite,  and  they  pro- 
duce the  same  effects  as  if  they  were  really 
so.  We  are  deceived  in  the  like  manner,  if 
the  parts  of  some  large  object  are  so  continued 
to  any  indefinite  number,  that  the  imagina- 
tion meets  no  check  which  may  hinder  its 
extending  them  at  pleasure. 

Whenever  we  repeat  any  idea  frequently, 
the  mind,  by  a sort  of  mechanism,  repeats  it 
long  after  the  first  cause  has  ceased  to  oper- 
ate. After  whirling  about,  when  we  sit 
down,  the  objects  about  us  still  seem  to  whirl. 
After  a long  succession  of  noises,  as  the  fall 
of  waters,  or  the  beating  of  forge-hammers, 
the  hammers  beat  and  the  waters  roar  in 


68 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


imagination  long  after  the  first  sounds  have 
ceased  to  affect  it ; and  they  die  away  at  last 
by  gradations  which  are  scarcely  perceptible. 
If  you  hold  up  a straight  pole,  with  your  eye 
to  one  end,  it  will  seem  extended  to  a length 
almost  incredible.  Place  a number  of  uni- 
form and  equidistant  marks  on  this  pole,  they 
will  cause  the  same  deception,  and  seem 
multiplied  without  end.  The  senses,  strongly 
affected  in  some  one  manner,  cannot  quickly 
change  their  tenor,  or  adapt  themselves  to 
other  things;  but  they  continue  in  their 
whole  channel  until  the  strength  of  the  first 
mover  decays.  This  is  the  reason  of  an  ap- 
pearance very  frequent  in  madmen ; that  they 
remain  whole  days  and  nights,  sometimes 
whole  years,  in  the  constant  repetition  of 
some  remark,  some  complaint,  or  song,  which 
having  struck  powerfully  on  their  disordered 
imagination  in  the  beginning  of  their  phrenzy, 
every  repetition  re-enforces  it  with  new 
strength ; and  the  hurry  of  their  spirits,  un- 
restrained by  the  curb  of  reason,  continues  it 
to  the  end  of  their  lives. 

SEC.  IX.— SUCCESSION  AND  UNI- 
FORMITY. 

Succession  and  uniformity  of  parts  are 
what  constitute  the  artificial  infinite.  1.  Suc- 
cession; which  is  requisite  that  the  parts  may 
be  continued  so  long  and  in  such  a direction, 
as  by  their  frequent  impulses  on  the  sense  to 
impress  the  imagination  with  an  idea  of  their 
progress  beyond  their  actual  limits.  2.  Uni- 
formity; because  if  the  figures  of  the  parts 
should  be  changed,  the  imagination  at  every 
change  finds  a check ; you  are  presented  at 
every  alteration  with  the  termination  of  one 
idea,  and  the  beginning  of  another ; by  which 
means  it  becomes  impossible  to  continue  that 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


69 


uninterrupted  progression,  which  alone  can 
stamp  on  bounded  objects  the  character  of 
infinity.*  It  is  in  this  kind  of  artificial 
infinity,  I believe,  we  ought  to  look  for  the 
cause  why  a rotund  has  such  a noble  effect. 
For  in  a rotund,  whether  it  be  a building  or  a 
plantation,  you  can  nowhere  fix  a boundary ; 
turn  which  way  you  will,  the  same  object 
still  seems  to  continue,  and  the  imagination 
has  no  rest.  But  the  parts  must  be  uniform, 
as  well  as  circularly  disposed,  to  give  this 
figure  its  full  force;  because  any  difference, 
whether  it  be  in  the  disposition  or  in  the 
figure,  or  even  in  the  color  of  the  parts,  is 
highly  prejudicial  to  the  idea  of  infinity, 
which  every  change  must  check  and  inter- 
rupt, at  every  alteration  commencing  a new 
series.  On  the  same  principles  of  succession 
and  uniformity,  the  grand  appearance  of  the 
ancient  heathen  temples,  which  were  gen- 
erally oblong  forms,  with  a range  of  uniform 
pillars  on  every  side,  will  be  easily  accounted 
for.  From  the  same  cause  also  may  be 
derived  the  grand  effect  of  the  aisles  in  many 
of  our  own  cathedrals.  The  form  of  a cross 
used  in  some  churches  seems  to  me  not  so 
eligible  as  the  parallelogram  of  the  ancients ; 
at  least,  I imagine  it  is  not  so  proper  for  the 
outside.  For  supposing  the  arms  of  the  cross 
every  way  equal,  if  you  stand  in  a direction 
parallel  to  any  of  the  side  walls,  or  colo- 
nades,  instead  of  a deception  that  makes  the 
building  more  extended  than  it  is,  you  are 
cut  off  from  a considerable  part  (two  thirds) 
of  its  actual  length ; and  to  prevent  all  possi- 
bility of  progression,  the  arms  of  the  cross 
taking  a new  direction,  make  a right  angle 


* Addison,  in  the  Spectator  concerning  the  pleasures  of  the 
imagination,  thinks  it  is  because  in  the  rotund  at  one  glance 
you  see  half  the  building.  This  I do  not  imagine  to  be  the 
real  cause. 


70 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


with  the  beam,  and  thereby  wholly  turn  the 
imagination  from  the  repetition  of  the  former 
idea.  Or  suppose  the  spectator  placed  where 
he  may  take  a direct  view  of  such  a building, 
what  will  be  the  consequence?  the  necessary 
consequence  will  be,  that  a good  part  of  the 
basis  of  each  angle  formed  by  the  intersection 
of  the  arms  of  the  cross,  must  be  inevitably 
lost;  the  whole  must  of  course  assume  a 
broken  unconnected  figure;  the  lights  must 
be  unequal,  here  strong,  and  there  weak; 
without  that  noble  gradation,  which  the 
perspective  always  effects  on  parts  disposed 
uninterruptedly  in  a right  line.  Some  or  all 
of  these  objections  will  lie  against  every 
figure  of  a cross,  in  whatever  view  you  take 
it.  I exemplified  them  in  the  Greek  cross,  in 
which  these  faults  appear  the  most  strongly ; 
but  they  appear  in  some  degree  in  all  sorts  of 
crosses.  Indeed  there  is  nothing  more  preju- 
dicial to  the  grandeur  of  buildings,  than  to 
abound  in  angles;  a fault  obvious  in  many; 
and  owing  to  an  inordinate  thirst  for  variety, 
which  whenever  it  prevails,  is  sure  to  leave 
very  little  true  taste. 

SEC.  X.— MAGNITUDE  IN  BUILDING. 

To  the  sublime  in  building,  greatness  of 
dimensions  seems  requisite;  for  on  a few 
parts,  and  those  small,  the  imagination  can- 
not rise  to  any  idea  of  infinity.  No  greatness 
in  the  manner  can  effectually  compensate  for 
the  want  of  proper  dimensions.  There  is  no 
danger  of  drawing  men  into  extravagant 
designs  by  this  rule;  it  -carries  its  own 
caution  along  with  it.  Because  too  great  a 
length  in  buildings  destroys  the  purpose  of 
greatness,  which  it  was  intended  to  promote ; 
the  perspective  will  lessen  it  in  height  as  it 
gains  in  length ; and  will  bring  it  at  last  to  a 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


71 


point ; turning  the  whole  figure  into  a sort  of 
triangle,  the  poorest  in  its  effect  of  almost 
any  figure  that  can  be  presented  to  the  eye. 
I have  ever  observed,  that  colonades  and 
avenues  of  trees  of  a moderate  length,  were 
without  comparison  far  grander,  than  when 
they  were  suffered  to  run  to  immense  dis- 
tances. A true  artist  should  put  a generous 
deceit  on  the  spectators,  and  effect  the  no- 
blest designs  by  easy  methods.  Designs  that 
are  vast  only  by  their  dimensions,  are  always 
the  sign  of  a common  and  low  imagination. 
No  work  of  art  can  be  great,  but  as  it 
deceives;  to  be  otherwise  is  the  prerogative 
of  nature  only.  A good  eye  will  fix  the 
medium  betwixt  an  excessive  length  or  height 
(for  the  same  objection  lies  against  both),  and 
a short  or  broken  quantity;  and  perhaps  it 
might  be  ascertained  to  a tolerable  degree  of 
exactness,  if  it  was  my  purpose  to  descend 
far  into  the  particulars  of  any  art. 

SEC.  XI.— INFINITY  IN  PLEASING!  OB- 
JECTS. 

Infinity,  though  of  another  kird,  causes 
much  of  our  pleasure  in  agreeable,  as  well  as 
of  our  delight  in  sublime,  images.  The  spring 
is  the  pleasantest  of  the  seasons;  and  the 
young  of  most  animals,  though  far  from 
being  completely  fashioned,  afford  a more 
agreeable  sensation  than  the  full-grown ; be- 
cause the  imagination  is  entertained  with  the 
promise  of  something  more,  and  does  not  ac- 
quiesce in  the  present  object  of  the  sense.  In 
unfinished  sketches  of  drawing,  I have  often 
seen  something  which  pleased  me  beyond  the 
best  finishing;  and  this  I believe  proceeds 
from  the  cause  I have  just  now  assigned. 


72 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


SEC.  XII.— DIFFICULTY. 

Another  source  of  greatness  is  Difficulty. 
When  any  work  seems  to  have  required  im- 
mense force  and  labor  to  effect  it,  the  idea  is 
grand.  Stonehenge,  neither  for  disposition 
nor  ornament,  has  anything  admirable;  but 
those  huge  rude  masses  of  stone,  set  on  end 
and  piled  on  each  other,  turn  the  mind  on  the 
immense  force  necessary  for  such  a work. 
Nay,  the  rudeness  of  the  work  increases  this 
cause  of  grandeur,  as  it  excludes  the  idea  of 
art  and  contrivance ; for  dexterity  produces 
another  sort  of  effect,  which  is  different 
enough  from  this. 

SEC.  XIII.— MAGNIFICENCE. 

Magnificence  is  likewise  a source  of  the 
sublime.  A great  profusion  of  things,  which 
are  splendid  or  valuable  in  themselves,  is 
magnificent.  The  starry  heaven,  though  it 
occurs  so  very  frequently  to  our  view,  never 
fails  to  excite  an  idea  of  grandeur.  This  can- 
not be  owing  to  the  stars  themselves,  sepa- 
rately considered.  The  number  is  certainly 
the  cause.  The  apparent  disorder  augments 
the  grandeur,  for  the  appearance  of  care  is 
highly  contrary  to  our  ideas  of  magnificence. 
Besides,  the  stars  lie  in  such  apparent  confu- 
sion, as  makes  it  impossible  on  ordinary  oc- 
casions to  reckon  them.  This  gives  them  the 
advantage  of  a sort  of  infinity.  In  works  of 
art,  this  kind  of  grandeur,  which  consists  in 
multitude,  is  to  be  very  cautiously  admitted ; 
because  a profusion  of  excellent  things  is  not 
to  be  attained,  or  with  too  much  difficulty; 
and  because  in  many  cases  this  splendid  con- 
fusion would  destroy  all  use,  which  should  be 
attended  to  in  most  of  the  works  of  art  with 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


73 


the  greatest  care ; besides,  it  is  to  be  consid- 
ered, that  unless  you  can  produce  an  appear- 
ance of  infinity  by  your  disorder,  you  will 
have  disorder  only  without  magnificence. 
There  are,  however,  a sort  of  fire- works,  and 
some  other  things,  that  in  this  way  succeed 
well,  and  are  truly  grand.  There  are  also 
many  descriptions  in  the  poets  and  orators, 
which  owe  their  sublimity  to  a richness  and 
profusion  of  images,  in  which  the  mind  is  so 
dazzled  as  to  make  it  impossible  to  attend  to 
that  exact  coherence  and  agreement  of  the  al- 
lusions, which  we  should  require  on  every 
other  occasion.  I do  not  now  remember  a 
more  striking  example  of  this,  than  the  de- 
scription which  is  given  of  the  king’s  army  in 
the  play  of  Henry  the  Fourth : 

All  furnished , all  in  arms, 

All  plum'd  like  ostriches  that  with  the  wind 
Baited  like  eagles  having  lately  bathed; 

As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May, 

And  gorgeous  as  the  sun  in  Midsummer , 

Wanton  as  youthful  goats,  wild  as  young  bulls. 

I saw  young  Harry  with  his  beaver  on 
Rise  from  the  ground  like  feather'd  Mercury; 

And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat 
As  if  an  angel  dropped  from  the  clouds 
To  turn  and  wind  a fiery  Pegasus. 

In  that  excellent  book,  so  remarkable  for 
the  vivacity  of  its  descriptions,  as  well  as  the 
solidity  and  penetration  of  its  sentences,  the 
Wisdom  of  the  son  of  Sirach,  there  is  a noble 
panegyric  on  the  high  priest  Simon  the  son  of 
Onias ; and  it  is  a very  fine  example  of  the 
point  before  us : 

‘ 1 How  was  he  honored  in  the  midst  of  the 
people,  in  his  coming  out  of  the  sanctuary! 
He  was  as  the  morning  star  in  the  midst  of  a 
cloud,  and  as  the  moon  at  the  full ; as  the  sun 
shining  upon  the  temple  of  the  Most  High, 
and  as  the  rainbow  giving  light  in  the  bright 
clouds ; and  as  the  flower  of  roses  in  the  spring 


74 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


of  the  year,  as  lilies  by  the  rivers  of  waters, 
and  as  the  frankincense  tree  in  summer ; as 
fire  and  incense  in  the  censer,  and  as  a vessel 
of  gold  set  with  precious  stones;  as  a fair 
olive  tree  budding  forth  fruit,  and  as  a cy- 
press which  groweth  up  to  the  clouds.  When 
he  put  on  the  robe  of  honor,  and  was  clothed 
with  the  perfection  of  glory,  when  he  went 
up  to  the  holy  altar,  he  made  the  garment  of 
holiness  honorable.  He  himself  stood  by  the 
hearth  of  the  altar,  compassed  with  his  breth- 
ren round  about ; as  a young  cedar  in  Liba- 
nus,  and  as  palm  trees  compassed  they  him 
about.  So  were  all  the  sons  of  Aaron  in  their 
glory,  and  the  oblations  of  the  Lord  in  their 
hands,”  etc. 


SEC.  XIV. -LIGHT. 

Having  considered  extension,  so  far  as  it  is 
capable  of  raising  ideas  of  greatness;  color 
comes  next  under  consideration.  All  colors 
depend  on  light.  Light  therefore  ought  pre- 
viously to  be  examined ; and  with  it  its  op- 
posite, darkness.  With  regard  to  light,  to 
make  it  a cause  capable  of  producing  the  sub- 
lime, it  must  be  attended  with  some  circum- 
stances, besides  its  bare  faculty  of  showing 
other  objects.  Mere  light  is  too  common  a 
thing  to  make  a strong  impression  on  the 
mind,  and  without  a strong  impression  noth- 
ing can  be  sublime.  But  such  a light  as  that 
of  the  sun,  immediately  exerted  on  the  eye, 
as  it  overpowers  the  sense,  is  a very  great- 
idea.  Light  of  an  inferior  strength  to  this,  if 
it  moves  with  great  celerity,  has  the  same 
power;  for  lightning  is  certainly  productive 
of  grandeur,  which  it  owes  chiefly  to  the  ex- 
treme velocity  of  its  motion.  A quick  tran- 
sition from  light  to  darkness,  or  from  dark- 
ness to  light,  has  yet  a greater  effect.  But 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


75 


darkness  is  more  productive  of  sublime  ideas 
than  light.  Our  great  poet  was  convinced  of 
this ; and  indeed  so  full  was  he  of  this  idea, 
so  entirely  possessed  with  the  power  of  a well- 
managed  darkness,  that  in  describing  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  Deity,  amidst  that  profusion 
of  magnificent  images,  which  the  grandeur 
of  his  subject  provokes  him  to  pour  out  upon 
every  side,  he  is  far  from  forgetting  the  ob- 
scurity which  surrounds  the  most  incompre- 
hensible of  all  beings,  but 

With  the  majesty  of  darkness  round 

Circles  his  throne. 

And  what  is  no  less  remarkable,  our  author 
had  the  secret  of  preserving  this  idea,  even 
when  he  seemed  to  depart  the  farthest  from 
it,  when  he  describes  the  light  and  glory 
which  flows  from  the  divine  presence ; a light 
which  by  its  very  excess  is  converted  into  a 
species  of  darkness. 

Dark  with  excessive  light  thy  skirts  appear. 

Here  is  an  idea  not  only  poetical  in  a high  de- 
gree, but  strictly  and  philosophically  just. 
Extreme  light,  by  overcoming  the  organs  of 
sight,  obliterates  all  objects,  so  as  in  its  effect 
exactly  to  resemble  darkness.  After  looking 
for  some  time  at  the  sun,  two  black  spots,  the 
impression  which  it  leaves,  seem  to  dance  be- 
fore our  eyes.  Thus  are  two  ideas  as  opposite 
as  can  be  imagined  reconciled  in  the  extremes 
of  both ; and  both  in  spite  of  their  opposite 
nature  brought  to  concur  in  producing  the 
sublime.  And  this  is  not  the  only  instance 
wherein  the  opposite  extremes  operate  equally 
in  favor  of  the  sublime  which  in  all  things 
abhors  mediocrity. 


16 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


SEC.  XV.— LIGHT  IN  BUILDING. 

As  the  management  of  light  is  a matter  of 
importance  in  architecture,  it  is  worth  in- 
quiring, how  far  this  remark  is  applicable  to 
building.  I think  then,  that  all  edifices  cal- 
culated to  produce  an  idea  of  the  sublime, 
ought  rather  to  be  dark  and  gloomy,  and  this 
for  two  reasons;  the  first  is,  that  darkness 
itself  on  other  occasions  is  known  by  expe- 
rience to  have  a greater  effect  on  the  passions 
than  light.  The  second  is,  that  to  make  an 
object  very  striking,  we  should  make  it  as 
different  as  possible  from  the  objects  with 
which  we  have  been  immediately  conversant ; 
when  therefore  you  enter  a building,  you 
cannot  pass  into  a greater  light  than  you  had 
in  the  open  air ; to  go  into  one  some  few  de- 
grees less  luminous,  can  make  only  a trifling 
change ; but  to  make  the  transition  thoroughly 
striking,  you  ought  to  pass  from  the  greatest 
light,  to  as  much  darkness  as  is  consistent 
with  the  uses  of  architecture.  At  night  the 
contrary  rule  will  hold,  but  for  the  very  same 
reason ; and  the  more  highly  a room  is  then 
illuminated,  the  grander  will  the  passion  be. 

SEC.  XVI.— COLOR  CONSIDERED  AS 
PRODUCTIVE  OF  THE  SUBLIME. 

Among  colors,  such  as  are  soft  or  cheerful 
(except  perhaps  a strong  red  which  is  cheer- 
ful) are  unfit  to  produce  grand  images.  An 
immense  mountain  covered  with  a shining 
green  turf,  is  nothing,  in  this  respect,  to  one 
dark  and  gloomy;  the  cloudy  sky  is  more 
grand  than  the  blue ; and  night  more  sublime 
and  solemn  than  day.  Therefore  in  histor* 
ical  painting,  a gay  or  gaudy  drapery  can 
never  have  a happy  effect : and  in  buildings, 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


77 

when  the  highest  degree  of  the  sublime  is  in- 
tended, the  materials  and  ornaments  ought 
neither  to  be  white,  nor  green,  nor  yellow, 
nor  blue,  nor  of  a pale  red,  nor  violet,  nor 
spotted,  but  of  sad  and  fuscous  colors,  as 
black,  or  brown,  or  deep  purple,  and  the  like. 
Much  of  gilding,  mosaics,  painting,  or  stat- 
ues, contribute  but  little  to  the  sublime.  This 
rule  need  not  be  put  in  practice,  except  where 
an  uniform  degree  of  the  most  striking  sub- 
limity is  to  be  produced,  and  that  in  every 
particular  ; for  it  ought  to  be  observed,  that 
this  melancholy  kind  of  greatness,  though  it 
be  certainly  the  highest,  ought  not  to  be  stud- 
ied in  all  sorts  of  edifices,  where  yet  grandeur 
must  be  studied : in  such  cases  the  sublimity 
must  be  drawn  from  the  other  sources ; with 
a strict  caution  however  against  anything 
light  and  riant;  as  nothing  so  effectually 
deadens  the  whole  taste  of  the  sublime. 

SEC.  XVII.— SOUND  AND  LOUDNESS. 

The  eye  is  not  the  only  organ  of  sensation, 
by  which  a sublime  passion  may  be  pro- 
duced. Sounds  have  a great  power  in  these 
as  in  most  other  passions.  I do  not  mean 
words,  because  words  do  not  affect  simply  by 
their  sounds,  but  by  means  altogether  differ- 
ent. Excessive  loundess  alone  is  sufficient  to 
overpower  the  soul,  to  suspend  its  action, 
and  to  fill  it  with  terror.  The  noise  of  vast 
cataracts,  raging  storms,  thunder,  or  artil- 
lery, awake  a great  and  awful  sensation  in 
the  mind,  though  we  can  observe  no  nicety  or 
artifice  in  those  sorts  of  music.  The  shouting 
of  multitudes  has  a similar  effect;  and,  by 
the  sole  strength  of  the  sound,  so  amazes  and 
confounds  the  imagination,  that  in  this  stag- 
gering, and  hurry  of  the  mind,  the  best  es- 
tablished tempers  can  scarcely  forbear  being 


78 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


borne  down,  and  joining  in  the  common  cry, 
and  common  resolution  of  the  crowd. 

SEC.  XVIII.— SUDDENNESS. 

A sudden  beginning,  or  sudden  cessation 
of  sound  of  any  considerable  force,  has  the 
same  power.  The  attention  is  roused  by  this ; 
and  the  faculties  driven  forward,  as  it  were, 
on  their  guard.  Whatever  either  in  sights  or 
sounds  makes  the  transition  from  one  extreme 
to  the  other  easy,  causes  no  terror,  and  con- 
sequently can  be  no  cause  of  greatness.  In 
everything  sudden  and  unexpected,  we  are 
apt  to  start ; that  is,  we  have  a perception  of 
danger;  and  our  nature  rouses  us  to  guard 
against  it.  It  may  be  observed  that  a single 
sound  of  some  strength,  though  but  of  short 
duration,  if  repeated  after  intervals,  has  a 
grand  effect.  Few  things  are  more  awful 
than  the  striking  of  a great  clock,  when  the 
silence  of  the  night  prevents  the  attention 
from  being  too  much  dissipated.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  a single  stroke  on  a drum,  re- 
peated with  pauses ; and  of  the  successive  fir- 
ing of  cannon  at  a distance.  All  the  effects 
mentioned  in  this  section  have  causes  very 
nearly  alike. 

SEC.  XIX.— INTERMITTING. 

A low,  tremulous,  intermitting  sound, 
though  it  seems  in  some  respects  opposite  to 
that  just  mentioned,  is  productive  of  the 
sublime.  It  is  wTorth  while  to  examine  this 
a little.  The  fact  itself  must  be  determined 
by  every  man’s  own  experience  and  reflec- 
tion. I have  already  observed  that  night 
increases  our  terror,  more  perhaps  than  any- 
thing else;  it  is  our  nature,  when  we  do 
not  know  what  may  happen  to  us,  to  fear  the 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


79 


worst  that  can  happen ; and  hence  it  is,  that 
uncertainty  is  so  terrible,  that  we  often  seek 
to  be  rid  of  it,  at  the  hazard  of  a certain  mis- 
chief. Now  some  low,  confused,  uncertain 
sounds  leaves  us  in  the  same  fearful  anxiety 
concerning  their  causes,  that  no  light,  or  an 
uncertain  light,  does  concerning  the  objects 
that  surround  us. 

Quale  per  incertam  lunam  sub  luce  maligna 

Est  iter  in  sylvis. 

A faint  shadow  of  uncertain  light, 

Like  as  a lamp , whose  life  doth  fade  ; 

Or  as  the  moon  clothed  with  cloudy  night 

Doth  show  to  him  who  walks  in  fear  and  great  afright. 

Spenser. 

But  light  now  appearing,  and  now  leaving  us, 
and  so  off  and  on,  is  even  more  terrible  than 
total  darkness : and  a sort  of  uncertain  sounds 
are,  when  the  necessary  dispositions  concur, 
more  alarming  than  a total  silence. 

SEC.  XX.— THE  CRIES  OF  ANIMALS. 

Such  sounds  as  imitate  the  natural  inarticu- 
late voices  of  men,  or  any  animals  in  pain  or 
danger,  are  capable  of  conveying  great  ideas ; 
unless  it  be  the  well-known  voice  of  some 
creature,  on  which  we  are  used  to  look  with 
contempt.  The  angry  tones  of  wild  beasts  are 
equally  capable  of  causing  a great  and  awful 
sensation. 

Hinc  exaudiri  g emit  us,  ir  deque  leonum 
Vincla  recusantum,  et  sera  sub  node  rudentum  ; 
Setigerique  sues,  atque  in  prcesepibus  ursi 
Scevire  ; etformce  magnorumululare  luporum. 

It  might  seem  that  these  modulations  of 
sound  carry  some  connection  with  the  nature 
of  the  things  they  represent,  and  are  not 
merely  arbitrary ; because  the  natural  cries  of 
all  annuals,  even  of  those  animals  with  whom 
we  have  not  been  acquainted,  never  fail  to 
make  themselves  sufficiently  understood ; 


80 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


this  cannot  be  said  of  language.  The  modifi- 
cations of  sound,  which  may  be  productive  of 
the  sublime,  are  almost  infinite.  Those  I 
have  mentioned  are  only  a few  instances,  to 
show  on  what  principles  they  are  all  built. 

SEC.  XXI.— SMELL  AND  TASTE.— BIT- 
TERS AND  STENCHES. 

Smells  and  Tastes  have  some  share  too  in 
ideas  of  greatness ; but  it  is  a small  one,  weak 
in  its  nature,  and  confined  in  its  operations. 
I shall  only  observe,  that  no  smells  or  tastes 
can  produce  a grand  sensation,  except  exces- 
sive bitters,  and  intolerable  stenches.  It  is 
true,  that  these  affections  of  the  smell  and 
taste,  when  they  are  in  their  full  force,  and 
lean  directly  upon  the  sensory,  are  simply 
painful,  and  accompanied  with  no  sort  of  de- 
light ; but  when  they  are  moderated,  as  in  a 
description  or  narrative,  they  become  sources 
of  the  sublime,  as  genuine  as  any  other,  and 
upon  the  very  same  principle  of  a moder- 
ated pain.  ‘ ‘ A cup  of  bitterness ; ” “to  drain 
the  bitter  cup  of  fortune ; ” “ the  bitter  apples 
of  Sodom;”  these  are  all  ideas  suitable  to  a 
sublime  description.  Nor  is  this  passage  of 
Virgil  without  sublimity,  where  the  stench  of 
the  vapor  in  Albunea  conspires  so  happily 
with  the  sacred  horror  and  gloominess  of  that 
proj)hetic  forest : 

At  rex  solicitus  monstris  oracula  Fauni 
Fatidici  genitoris  adit , lucosque  sub  alta 
Consulit  Albunea , nemorum  quce  maxima  sacro 
Fonte  sonat;  ssevamque  exhalat  opaca  Mephitim. 

In  the  sixth  book,  and  in  a very  sublime  de- 
scription, the  poisonous  exhalation  of  Ache- 
ron is  not  forgot,  nor  does  it  at  all  disagree 
with  the  other  images  amongst  which  it  is  in- 
troduced : 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


81 


Spelunca  alta  f uit  vastoque  immanis  hiatu 
Scrupea,  tuta  lacu  nigro,  nemorumque  tenebris, 

Quam  super  hand  ullce  poterant  impune  volantes 
Tendere  iter  pennis,  talis  sese  halitus  atris 
Faucibus  effundens  supera  ad  convexa  ferebat. 

I have  added  these  examples,  because  some 
friends,  for  whose  judgment  I have  great  def- 
erence, were  of  opinion  that  if  the  sentiment 
stood  nakedly  by  itself,  it  would  be  subject, 
at  first  view,  to  burlesque  and  ridicule;  but 
this  I imagine  would  principally  arise  from 
considering  the  bitterness  and  stench  in  com- 
pany with  mean  and  contemptible  ideas,  with 
which  it  must  be  owned  they  are  often 
united ; such  an  union  degrades  the  sublime 
in  all  other  instances  as  well  as  in  those. 
But  it  is  one  of  the  tests  by  which  the  sublim- 
ity of  an  image  is  to  be  tried,  not  whether  it 
becomes  mean  when  associated  with  mean 
ideas,  but  whether,  when  united  with  images 
of  an  allowed  grandeur,  the  whole  composi- 
tion is  supported  with  dignity.  Things  which 
are  terrible  are  always  great ; but  when  things 
possess  disagreeable  qualities,  or  such  as  have 
indeed  some  degree  of  danger,  but  of  a dan- 
ger easily  overcome,  they  are  merely  odious , 
as  toads  and  spiders. 

SEC.  XXII.— FEELING.— PAIN. 

Of  Feeling,  little  more  can  be  said,  than 
that  the  idea  of  bodily  pain,  in  all  the  modes 
and  degrees  of  labor,  pain,  anguish,  torment, 
is  productive  of  the  sublime;  and  nothing 
else  in  this  sense  can  produce  it.  I need  not 
give  here  any  fresh  instances,  as  those  given 
in  the  former  sections  abundantly  illustrate  a 
remark,  that  in  reality  waitts  only  an  atten- 
tion to  nature,  to  be  made  by  everybody. 

Having  thus  run  through  the  causes  of  the 
sublime  with  reference  to  all  the  senses,  my 
first  observation  (Sec.  7)  will  be  found  very 
G 


82 


OJSf  THE  SUBLIME 


nearly  true;  that  the  sublime  is  an  idea  be- 
longing to  self-preservation ; that  it  is  there- 
fore one  of  the  most  affecting  we  have ; that 
its  strongest  emotion  is  an  emotion  of  dis- 
tress; and  that  no  pleasure  from  a positive 
cause  belongs  to  it.  Numberless  examples, 
besides  those  mentioned,  might  be  brought  in 
support  of  these  truths,  and  many  perhaps 
useful  consequences  drawn  from  them — 

Sed  fugit  interea , fugit  irrevocabile  tempus 

Singula  dum  capti  circumvectamur  amove . 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  AND 
BEAUTIFUL. 


PART  III. — SEC.  I.— OP  BEAUTY. 

It  is  my  design  to  consider  beauty  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  sublime;  and,  in  the 
course  of  the  inquiry,  to  examine  how  far  it 
is  consistent  with  it.  But  previous  to  this, 
we  must  take  a short  review  of  the  opinions 
already  entertained  of  this  quality ; which  I 
think  are  hardly  to  be  reduced  to  any  fixed 
principles ; because  men  are  used  to  talk  of 
beauty  in  a figurative  manner,  that  is  to  say, 
in  a manner  extremely  uncertain,  and  inde- 
terminate. By  beauty  I mean  that  quality, 
or  those  qualities  in  bodies,  by  which  they 
cause  love,  or  some  passion  similar  to  it.  I 
confine  this  definition  to  the  merely  sensible 
qualities  of  things,  for  the  sake  of  preserving 
the  utmost  simplicity  in  a subject  which  must 
always  distract  us,  whenever  we  take  in  those 
various  causes  of  sympathy  which  attach  us 
to  any  persons  or  things  from  secondary  con- 
siderations, and  not  from  the  direct  force 
which  they  have  merely  on  being  viewed.  I 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


83 


likewise  distinguish  love,  by  which  I mean 
that  satisfaction  which  arises  to  the  mind 
upon  contemplating  anything  beautiful,  of 
whatsoever  nature  it  may  be,  from  desire  or 
lust ; which  is  an  energy  of  the  mind,  that 
hurries  us  on  to  the  possession  of  certain  ob- 
jects, that  do  not  affect  us  as  they  are  beauti- 
ful, but  by  means  altogether  different.  We 
shall  have  a strong  desire  for  a woman  of  no 
remarkable  beauty ; whilst  the  greatest 
beauty  in  men,  or  in  other  animals,  though  it 
causes  love,  yet  excites  nothing  at  all  of  de- 
sire. Which  shows  that  beauty,  and  the  pas- 
sion caused  by  beauty,  which  I call  love,  is 
different  from  desire,  though  desire  may 
sometimes  operate  along  with  it ; but  it  is  to 
this  latter  that  we  must  attribute  those  vio- 
lent and  tempestuous  passions,  and  the  conse- 
quent emotions  of  the  body  which  attend 
what  is  called  love  in  some  of  its  ordinary  ac- 
ceptations, and  not  to  the  effects  of  beauty 
merely  as  it  is  such. 

SEC.  II.—  PPOPOKTION  NOT  THE  CAUSE 
OF  BEAUTY  IN  VEGETABLES. 

Beauty  hath  usually  been  said  to  consist  in 
certain  proportions  of  parts.  On  considering 
the  matter,  I have  great  reason  to  doubt, 
whether  beauty  be  at  all  an  idea  belonging  to 
proportion.  Proportion  relates  almost  wholly 
to  convenience,  as  every  idea  of  order  seems 
to  do , and  it  must  therefore  be  considered  as 
a creature  of  the  understanding,  rather  than 
a primary  cause  acting  on  the  senses  and  im- 
agination. It  is  not  by  the  force  of  long  at- 
tention and  inquiry  that  we  find  any  object 
to  be  beautiful;  beauty  demands  no  assist- 
ance from  our  reasoning;  even  the  will  is  un- 
concerned ; the  appearance  of  beauty  as  ef- 
fectually causes  some  degree  of  love  in  us,  as 


84 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


the  application  of  ice  or  fire  produces  the 
ideas  of  heat  or  cold.  To  gain  something  like 
a satisfactory  conclusion  in  this  point,  it  were 
well  to  examine,  what  proportion  is;  since 
several  who  make  use  of  that  word,  do  not 
always  seem  to  understand  very  clearly  the 
force  of  the  term,  nor  to  have  very  distinct 
ideas  concerning  the  thing  itself.  Proportion 
is  the  measure  of  relative  quantity.  Since 
all  quantity  is  divisible,  it  is  evident  that 
every  distinct  part  into  which  any  quantity 
is  divided,  must  bear  some  relation  to  the 
other  parts,  or  to  the  whole.  These  relations 
give  an  origin  to  the  idea  of  proportion. 
They  are  discovered  by  mensuration,  and 
they  are  the  objects  of  mathematical  inquiry. 
But  whether  any  part  of  any  determinate 
quantity  be  a fourth,  or  a fifth,  or  a sixth,  or 
a moiety  of  the  whole ; or  whether  it  be  of 
equal  length  with  any  other  part,  or  double 
its  length,  or  but  one  half,  is  a matter  merely 
indifferent  to  the  mind ; it  stands  neuter  in 
the  question ; and  it  is  from  this  absolute  in- 
difference and  tranquillity  of  the  mind,  that 
mathematical  speculations  derive  some  of 
their  most  considerable  advantages ; because 
there  is  nothing  to  interest  the  imagination ; 
because  the  judgment  sits  free  and  unbiassed 
to  examine  the  point.  All  proportions,  every 
arrangement  of  quantity,  is  alike  to  the  under- 
standing, because  the  same  truths  result  to  it 
from  all;  from  greater,  from  lesser,  from 
equality  and  inequality.  But  surely  beauty 
is  no  idea  belonging  to  mensuration ; nor  has 
it  anything  to  do  with  calculation  and  ge- 
ometry. If  it  had,  we  might  then  point  out 
some  certain  measures  which  we  could  dem- 
onstrate to  be  beautiful,  either  as  simply 
considered,  or  as  related  to  others;  and  we 
could  call  in  those  natural  objects,  for  whose 
beauty  we  have  no  voucher  but  the  sense,  to, 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


85 


this  happy  standard,  and  confirm  the  voice 
of  our  passions  by  the  determination  of  our 
reason.  But  since  we  have  not  this  help,  let 
us  see  whether  proportion  can  in  any  sense 
be  considered  as  the  cause  of  beauty,  as  hath 
been  so  generally,  and  by  some  so  confidently 
affirmed.  If  proportion  be  one  of  the  constit- 
uents of  beauty,  it  must  derive  that  power 
either  from  some  natural  properties  inherent 
in  certain  measures,  which  operate  mechanic- 
ally ; from  the  operation  of  custom ; or  from 
the  fitness  which  some  measures  have  to  an- 
swer some  particular  ends  of  conveniency. 
Our  business  therefore  is  to  inquire,  whether 
the  parts  of  those  objects,  which  are  found 
beautiful  in  the  vegetable  or  animal  king- 
doms, are  constantly  so  formed  according  to 
such  certain  measures,  as  may  serve  to  sat- 
isfy us  that  their  beauty  results  from  those 
measures  on  the  principle  of  a natural  me- 
chanical cause ; or  from  custom ; or,  in  fine, 
from  their  fitness  for  any  determinate  pur- 
poses. I intend  to  examine  this  point  under 
each  of  these  heads  in  their  order.  But  be- 
fore I proceed  further,  I hope  it  will  not  be 
thought  amiss,  if  I lay  down  the  rules  which 
governed  me  in  this  inquiry,  and  which  have 
misled  me  in  it,  if  I have  gone  astray.  1.  If 
two  bodies  produce  the  same  or  a similar  ef- 
fect on  the  mind,  and  on  examination  they 
are  found  to  agree  in  some  of  their  properties, 
and  to  differ  in  others ; the  common  effect  is 
to  be  attributed  to  the  properties  in  which 
they  agree;  and  not  to  those  in  which  they 
differ.  2.  Not  to  account  for  the  effect  of  a 
natural  object  from  the  effect  of  an  artificial 
object.  8.  Not  to  account  for  the  effect  of 
any  natural  object  from  a conclusion  of  our 
reason  concerning  its  uses,  if  a natural  cause 
may  be  assigned.  4.  Not  to  admit  any  deter- 
minate quantity,  or  any  relation  of  quantity, 


86 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


as  the  cause  of  a certain  effect,  if  the  effect  is 
produced  by  different  or  opposite  measures 
and  relations;  or  if  these  measures  and  re- 
lations may  exist,  and  yet  the  effect  may 
not  be  produced.  These  are  the  rules  which 
I have  chiefly  followed,  whilst  I examined 
into  the  power  of  proportion  considered  as 
a natural  cause;  and  these,  if  he  thinks 
them  just,  I request  the  reader  to  carry  with 
him  throughout  the  following  discussion; 
whilst  we  inquire  in  the  first  place,  in  what 
things  we  find  this  quality  of  beauty;  next, 
to  see  whether  in  these  we  can  find  any  as- 
signable proportions,  in  such  a manner  as 
ought  to  convince  us  that  our  idea  of  beauty 
results  from  them.  We  shall  consider  this 
pleasing  power,  as  it  appears  in  vegetables,  in 
the  inferior  animals,  and  in  man.  Turning 
our  eyes  to  the  vegetable  creation,  we  find 
nothing  there  so  beautiful  as  flowers;  but 
flowers  are  almost  of  every  sort  of  shape,  and 
of  every  sort  of  disposition ; they  are  turned 
and  fashioned  into  an  infinite  variety  of 
forms ; and  from  these  forms  botanists  have 
given  them  their  names,  which  are  almost  as 
various.  What  proportion  do  we  discover 
between  the  stalks  and  the  leaves  of  flowers, 
or  between  the  leaves  and  the  pistils?  How 
does  the  slender  stalk  of  the  rose  agree  with 
the  bulky  head  under  which  it  bends?  but 
the  rose  is  a beautiful  flower;  and  can  we 
undertake  to  say  that  it  does  not  owe  a great 
deal  of  its  beauty  even  to  that  disproportion ; 
the  rose  is  a large  flower,  yet  it  grows  upon  a 
small  shrub ; the  flower  of  the  apple  is  very 
small,  and  grows  upon  a large  tree ; yet  the 
rose  and  the  apple  blossom  are  both  beautiful, 
and  the  plants  that  bear  them  are  most  en- 
gagingly attired,  notwithstanding  this  dispro- 
portion. What  by  general  consent  is  allowed 
to  be  a more  beautiful  object  than  an  orange- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


87 


tree,  flourishing' at  once  with  its  leaves,  its 
blossoms,  and  its  fruit?  hut  it  is  in  vain  that 
we  search  here  for  any  proportion  between 
the  height,  the  breadth,  or  anything  else  con- 
cerning the  dimensions  of  the  whole,  or  con- 
cerning the  relation  of  the  particular  parts  to 
each  other.  1 grant  that  we  may  observe  in 
many  flowers  something  of  a regular  figure, 
and  of  a methodical  disposition  of  the  leaves. 
The  rose  has  such  a figure  and  such  a dispo- 
sition of  its  petals ; but  in  an  oblique  view, 
when  this  figure  is  in  a good  measure  lost, 
and  the  order  of  the  leaves  confounded,  it  yet 
retains  its  beauty;  the  rose  is  even  more 
beautiful  before  it  is  full  blown ; and  the  bud, 
before  this  exact  figure  is  formed ; and  this  is 
not  the  only  instance  wherein  method  and 
exactness,  the  soul  of  proportion,  are  found 
rather  prejudicial  than  serviceable  to  the 
cause  of  beauty. 

SEC.  III.  — PROPORTION  NOT  THE 
CAUSE  OF  BEAUTY  IN  ANIMALS. 

That  proportion  has  but  a small  share  in 
the  formation  of  beauty,  is  full  as  evident 
among  animals.  Here  the  greatest  variety 
of  shapes  and  dispositions  of  parts,  are  well 
fitted  to  excite  this  idea.  The  swan,  con- 
fessedly a beautiful  bird,  has  a neck  longer 
than  the  rest  of  his  body,  and  but  a very  short 
tail:  is  this  a beautiful  proportion?  we  must 
allow  that  it  is.  But  then  what  shall  we  say 
to  the  peacock,  who  has  comparatively  but  a 
short  neck,  with  a tail  longer  than  the  neck 
and  the  rest  of  the  body  taken  together? 
How  many  birds  are  there  that  vary  infinitely 
from  each  of  these  standards,  and  from  every 
other  which  you  can  fix;  with  proportions 
different,  and  often  directly  opposite  to  each 
other ! and  yet  many  of  these  birds  are  ex- 


88 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


tremely  beautiful;  when  upon  considering 
them  we  find  nothing  in  any  one  part  that 
might  determine  us,  a priori , to  say  what  the 
others  ought  to  be,  nor  indeed  to  guess  any- 
thing about  them,  but  what  experience  might 
show  to  be  full  of  disappointment  and  mis- 
take. And  with  regard  to  the  colors  either 
of  birds  or  flowers,  for  there  is  something 
similar  in  the  coloring  of  both,  whether  they 
are  considered  in  their  extension  or  gradation, 
there  is  nothing  of  proportion  to  be  observed. 
Some  are  of  but  one  single  color ; others  have 
all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow ; some  are  of  the 
primary  colors,  others  are  of  the  mixt;  in 
short,  an  attentive  observer  may  soon  con- 
clude, that  there  is  as  little  of  proportion  in 
the  coloring  as  in  the  shapes  of  these  objects. 
Turn  next  to  beasts ; examine  the  head  of  a 
beautiful  horse;  find  what  proportion  that 
bears  to  his  body,  and  to  his  limbs,  and  what 
relations  these  have  to  each  other ; and  when 
you  have  settled  these  proportions  as  a stand- 
ard of  beauty,  then  take  a dog  or  cat,  or  any 
other  animal,  and  examine  how  far  the  same 
proportions  between  their  heads  and  their 
necks,  between  those  and  the  body,  and  so  on, 
are  found  to  hold ; I think  we  may  fairly  say, 
that  they  differ  in  every  species,  yet  that 
there  are  individuals  found  in  a great  many 
species  so  differing,  that  have  a very  striking 
beauty.  Now  if  it  be  allowed  that  very  dif- 
ferent, and  even  contrary,  forms  and  disposi- 
tions are  consistent  with  beauty,  it  amounts 
I believe  to  a concession,  that  no  certain 
measures,  operating  from  a natural  principle, 
are  necessary  to  produce  it,  at  least  so  far  as 
the  brute  species  is  concerned. 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


89 


SEC.  IV.—  PROPORTION  NOT  THE  CAUSE 
OF  BEAUTY  IN  THE  HUMAN  SPE- 
CIES. 

There  are  some  parts  of  the  human  body, 
that  are  observed  to  hold  certain  proportions 
to  each  other;  but  before  it  can  be  proved, 
that  the  efficient  cause  of  beauty  lies  in  these, 
it  must  be  shown,  that  wherever  these  are 
found  exact,  the  person  to  whom  they  belong 
is  beautiful : I mean  in  the  effect  produced  on 
the  view,  either  of  any  member  distinctly 
considered,  or  of  the  whole  body  together. 
It  must  be  likewise  shown,  that  these  parts 
stand  in  such  a relation  to  each  other,  that 
the  comparison  between  them  may  be  easily 
made,  and  that  the  affection  of  the  mind 
may  naturally  result  from  it.  For  my  part, 
I have  at  several  times  very  carefully  ex- 
amined many  of  those  proportions,  and 
found  them  hold  very  nearly,  or  altogether 
alike  in  many  subjects,  which  were  not  only 
very  different  from  one  another,  but  where 
one  has  been  very  beautiful,  and  the  other 
very  remote  from  beauty.  With  regard  to 
the  parts  which  are  found  so  proportioned, 
they  are  often  so  remote  from  each  other,  in 
situation,  nature,  and  office,  that  I cannot  see 
how  they  admit  of  any  comparison,  nor 
consequently  how  any  effect  owing  to  pro- 
portion can  result  from  them.  The  neck, 
say  they,  in  beautiful  bodies,  should  measure 
with  the  calf  of  the  leg ; it  should  likewise  be 
twice  the  circumference  of  the  wrist.  And 
an  infinity  of  observations  of  this  kind  are  to 
be  found  in  the  writings  and  conversations  of 
many.  But  what  relation  has  the  calf  of  the 
leg  to  the  neck ; or  either  of  these  parts  to  the 
wrist?  These  proportions  are  certainly  to  he 
found  in  handsome  bodies.  They  are  as 


90 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


certainly  in  ugly  ones ; as  any  one  who  will 
take  the  pains  to  try  will  find.  Nay,  I do  not 
know  but  they  may  he  least  perfect  in  some 
of  the  most  beautiful.  You  may  assign  any 
proportions  you  please  to  every  part  of  the 
human  body ; and  I undertake  that  a painter 
shall  religiously  observe  them  all,  and  not- 
withstanding produce,  if  he  pleases,  a very 
ugly  figure.  The  same  painter  shall  con- 
siderably deviate  from  these  proportions,  and 
produce  a very  beautiful  one.  And  indeed  it 
may  be  observed  in  the  master-pieces  of  the 
ancient  and  modern  statuary,  that  several  of 
them  differ  very  widely  from  the  proportions 
of  others,  in  parts  very  conspicuous  and  of 
great  consideration ; and  that  they  differ  no 
less  from  the  proportions  we  find  in  living 
men,  of  forms  extremely  striking  and  agree- 
able. And  after  all,  how  are  the  partisans  of 
proportional  beauty  agreed  amongst  them- 
selves about  the  proportions  of  the  human 
body?  some  hold  it  to  be  seven  heads;  some 
make  it  eight ; whilst  others  extend  it  even  to 
ten ; a vast  difference  in  such  a small  number 
of  divisions!  Others  take  other  methods  of 
estimating  the  proportions,  and  all  with 
equal  success.  But  are  these  proportions 
exactly  the  same  in  all  handsome  men;  or 
are  they  at  all  the  proportions  found  in  beau- 
tiful women?  nobody  will  say  that  they  are; 
yet  both  sexes  are  undoubtedly  capable  of 
beauty,  and  the  female  of  the  greatest ; which 
advantage  I believe  will  hardly  be  attributed 
to  the  superior  exactness  of  proportion  in  the 
fair  sex.  Let  us  rest  a moment  on  this  point ; 
and  consider  how  much  difference  there  is, 
between  the  measures  that  prevail  in  many 
similar  parts  of  the  body,  in  the  two  sexes  of 
this  single  species  only.  If  you  assign  any 
determinate  proportions  to  the  limbs  of  a 
man,  and  if  you  limit  human  beauty  to  these 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


91 


proportions,  when  you  find  a woman  who 
differs  in  the  make  and  measures  of  almost 
every  part,  you  must  conclude  her  not  to  be 
beautiful,  in  spite  of  the  suggestions  of  your 
imagination ; or,  in  obedience  to  your  imagi- 
nation, you  must  renounce  your  rules;  you 
must  lay  by  the  scale  and  compass,  and  look 
out  for  some  other  cause  of  beauty.  For  if 
beauty  be  attached  to  certain  measures  which 
operate  from  a principle  of  nature , why 
should  similar  parts  with  different  measures 
of  proportion  be  found  to  have  beauty,  and 
this  too  in  the  very  same  species?  but  to  open 
our  view  a little,  it  is  worth  observing,  that 
almost  all  animals  have  parts  of  very  much 
the  same  nature,  and  destined  nearly  to  the 
same  purposes!  an  head,  neck,  body,  feet, 
eyes,  ears,  nose,  and  mouth ; yet  providence, 
to  provide  in  the  best  manner  for  their 
several  wants,  and  to  display  the  riches  of 
his  wisdom  and  goodness  in  his  creation,  has 
worked  out  of  these  few  and  similar  organs, 
and  members,  a diversity  hardly  short  of 
infinite  in  their  disposition,  measures,  and 
relation.  But,  as  we  have  before  observed, 
amidst  this  infinite  diversity,  one  particular 
is  common  to  many  species:  several  of  the 
individuals  which  compose  them  are  capable 
of  affecting  us  with  a sense  of  loveliness ; and 
whilst  they  agree  in  producing  this  effect, 
they  differ  extremely  in  the  relative  measures 
of  those  parts  which  have  produced  it. 
These  considerations  were  sufficient  to  induce 
me  to  reject  the  notion  of  any  particular  pro- 
portions that  operated  by  nature  to  produce 
a pleasing  effect;  but  those  who  will  agree 
with  me  with  regard  to  a particular  propor- 
tion, are  strongly  prepossessed  in  favor  of 
one  more  indefinite.  They  imagine,  that 
although  beauty  in  general  is  annexed  to  no 
certain  measures  common  to  the  several 


92 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


kinds  of  pleasing  plants  and  animals;  yet 
that  there  is  a certain  proportion  in  each 
species  absolutely  essential  to  the  beauty  of 
that  particular  kind.  If  we  consider  the 
animal  world  in  general,  we  find  beauty 
confined  to  no  certain  measures ; but  as  some 
peculiar  measure  and  relation  of  parts  in 
what  distinguishes  each  peculiar  class  of 
animals,  it  must  of  necessity  be,  that  the 
beautiful  in  each  kind  will  be  found  in  the 
measures  and  proportions  of  that  kind;  for 
otherwise  it  would  deviate  from  its  proper 
species,  and  become  in  some  sort  monstrous ; 
however,  no  species  is  so  strictly  confined  to 
any  certain  proportions,  that  there  is  not  a 
considerable  variation  amongst  the  indi- 
viduals; and  as  it  has  been  shown  of  the 
human,  so  it  may  be  shown  of  the  brute 
kinds,  that  beauty  is  found  indifferently  in 
all  the  proportions  which  each  kind  can 
admit,  without  quitting  its  common  form; 
and  it  is  this  idea  of  a common  form  that 
makes  the  proportion  of  parts  at  all  regarded, 
and  not  the  operation  of  any  natural  cause : 
indeed  a little  consideration  will  make  it 
appear,  that  it  is  not  measure  but  manner 
that  creates  all  the  beauty  which  belongs  to 
shape.  What  light  do  we  borrow  from  these 
boasted  proportions,  when  we  study  orna- 
mental design?  It  seems  amazing  to  me, 
that  artists,  if  they  were  as  well  convinced 
as  they  pretend  to  be,  that  proportion  is  a 
principal  cause  of  beauty,  have  not  by  them 
at  all  times  accurate  measurements  of  all 
sorts  of  beautiful  animals  to  help  them  to 
proper  proportions,  when  they  would  con- 
trive anything  elegant,  especially  as  they 
frequently  assert,  that  it  is  from  an  observa- 
tion of  the  beautiful  in  nature  they  direct 
their  practice.  I know  that  it  has  been  said 
long  since,  and  echoed  backward  and  forward 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


93 


from  one  writer  to  another  a thousand  times, 
that  the  proportions  of  building  have  been 
taken  from  those  of  the  human  body.  To 
make  this  forced  analogy  complete,  they 
represent  a man  with  his  arms  raised  and 
extended  at  full  length,  and  then  describe  a 
sort  of  square,  as  it  is  formed  by  passing 
lines  along  the  extremities  of  this  strange 
figure.  But  it  appears  very  clearly  to  me, 
that  the  human  figure  never  supplied  the 
architect  with  any  of  his  ideas.  For  in  the 
first  place,  men  are  very  rarely  seen  in  this 
strained  posture;  it  is  not  natural  to  them; 
neither  is  it  at  all  becoming.  Secondly,  the 
view  of  the  human  figure  so  disposed,  does 
not  naturally  suggest  the  idea  of  a square,- 
hut  rather  of  a cross;  as  that  large  space 
between  the  arms  and  the  ground,  must  be 
filled  with  something  before  it  can  make 
anybody  think  of  a square.  Thirdly,  several 
buildings  are  by  no  means  of  the  form  of  that 
particular  square,  which  are  notwithstanding 
planned  by  the  best  architects,  and  produce 
an  effect  altogether  as  good,  and  perhaps  a 
better.  And  certainly  nothing  could  be  more 
whimsical,  than  for  an  architect  to  model  his 
performance  by  the  human  figure,  since  no 
two  things  can  have  less  resemblance  or 
analogy,  than  a man,  and  an  house  or 
temple:  do  we  need  to  observe,  that  their 
purposes  are  entirely  different?  What  I am 
apt  to  suspect  is  this:  that  these  analogies 
were  devised  to  give  a credit  to  the  works  of 
art,  by  showing  a conformity  between  them 
and  the  noblest  works  of  nature;  not  that 
the  latter  served  at  all  to  supply  hints  for  the 
perfection  of  the  former.  And  I am  the 
more  fully  convinced,  that  the  patrons  of 
proportion  have  transferred  their  artificial 
ideas  to  nature,  and  not  borrowed  from 
thence  the  proportions  they  use  in  works  of 


94 


OJV  THE  SUBLIME 


art ; because  in  any  discussion  of  this  subject 
they  always  quit  as  soon  as  possible  the  open 
field  of  natural  beauties,  the  animal  and 
vegetable  kingdoms,  and  fortify  themselves 
within  the  artificial  lines  and  angles  of  archi- 
tecture. For  there  is  in  mankind  an  unfortu- 
nate propensity  to  make  themselves,  their 
views,  and  their  works,  the  measure  of  excel- 
lence in  everything  whatsoever.  Therefore 
having  observed  that  their  dwellings  were 
most  commodious  and  firm  when  they  were 
thrown  into  regular  figures,  with  parts 
answerable  to  each  other;  they  transferred 
these  ideas  to  their  gardens;  they  turned 
their  trees  into  pillars,  pyramids,  and 
obelisks;  they  formed  their  hedges  into  so 
many  green  walls,  and  fashioned  their  walks 
into  squares,  triangles,  and  other  mathemat- 
ical figures,  with  exactness  and  symmetry; 
and  they  thought,  if  they  were  not  imitating, 
they  were  at  least  improving  nature,  and 
teaching  her  to  know  her  business.  But 
nature  has  at  last  escaped  from  their  disci- 
pline and  their  fetters;  and  our  gardens,  if 
nothing  else,  declare,  we  begin  to  feel  that 
mathematical  ideas  are  not  the  true  measures 
of  beauty.  And  surely  they  are  full  as  little 
so  in  the  animal,  as  the  vegetable  world. 
For  is  it  not  extraordinary,  that  in  these  fine 
descriptive  pieces,  these  innumerable  odes 
and  elegies  which  are  in  the  mouths  of  all 
the  world,  and  many  of  which  have  been  the 
entertainment  of  ages,  that  in  these  pieces 
which  describe  love  with  such  a passionate 
energy,  and  represent  its  object  in  such  an 
infinite  variety  of  lights,  not  one  word  is  said 
of  proportion,  if  it  be,  what  some  insist  it  is, 
the  principal  component  of  beauty ; whilst  at 
the  same  time,  several  other  qualities  are 
very  frequently  and  warmly  mentioned ! 
But  if  proportion  has  not  this  power,  it  may 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


95 


appear  odd  how  men  came  originally  to  be  so 
prepossessed  in  its  favor.  It  arose,  I imagine, 
from  the  fondness  I have  just  mentioned, 
which  men  bear  so  remarkably  to  their  own 
works  and  notions ; it  arose  from  false  reason- 
ings on  the  effects  of  the  customary  figure  of 
animals ; it  arose  from  the  Platonic  theory  of 
fitness  and  aptitude.  For  which  reason,  in 
the  next  section,  I shall  consider  the  effects 
of  custom  in  the  figure  of  animals ; and  after- 
wards the  idea  of  fitness : since  if  proportion 
does  not  operate  by  a natural  power  attend- 
ing some  measures,  it  must  be  either  by 
custom,  or  the  idea  of  utility;  there  is  no 
other  way. 

SEC.  V.—  PROPORTION  FURTHER  CON- 
SIDERED. 

If  I am  not  mistaken,  a great  deal  of  the 
prejudice  in  favor  of  proportion  has  arisen, 
not  so  much  from  the  observation  of  any 
certain  measures  found  in  beautiful  bodies, 
as  from  a wrong  idea  of  the  relation  which 
deformity  bears  to  beauty,  to  which  it  has 
been  considered  as  the  opposite;  on  this 
principle  it  was  concluded,  that  where  the 
causes  of  deformity  were  removed,  beauty 
must  naturally  and  necessarily  be  introduced. 
This  I believe  is  a mistake.  For  deformity 
is  opposed  not  to  beauty,  but  to  the  complete , 
common  form.  If  one  of  the  legs  of  a man  be 
found  shorter  than  the  other,  the  man  is  de- 
formed ; because  there  is  something  wanting 
to  complete  the  whole  idea  we  form  of  a man ; 
and  this  has  the  same  effect  in  natural  faults, 
as  maiming  and  mutilation  produce  from 
accidents.  So  if  the  back  be  humped,  the 
man  is  deformed;  because  his  back  has  an 
unusual  figure,  and  what  carries  with  it  the 
idea  of  some  disease  or  misfortune;  so  if  a 


96 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


man’s  neck  may  be  considerably  longer  or 
shorter  than  usual,  we  say  he  is  deformed 
in  that  part,  because  men  are  not  commonly 
made  in  that  manner.  But  surely  every 
hour’s  experience  may  convince  us,  that  a 
man  may  have  his  legs  of  an  equal  length,  and 
resembling  each  other  in  all  respects,  and 
his  neck  of  a just  size,  and  his  back  quite 
straight,  without  having  at  the  same  time 
the  least  perceivable  beauty.  Indeed  beauty 
is  so  far  from  belonging  to  the  idea  of  custom, 
that  in  reality  what  affects  us  in  that 
manner  is  extremely  rare  and  uncommon. 
The  beautiful  strikes  us  as  much  by  its  nov- 
elty as  the  deformed  itself.  It  is  thus  in  those 
species  of  animals  with  which  we  are  ac- 
quainted ; and  if  one  of  a new  species  were 
represented,  we  should  by  no  means  wait 
until  custom  had  settled  an  idea  of  proportion, 
before  we  decided  concerning  its  beauty  or 
ugliness : which  shows  that  the  general  idea 
of  beauty  can  be  no  more  owing  to  custom- 
ary than  to  natural  proportion.  Deformity 
arises  from  the  want  of  the  common  propor- 
tions ; but  the  necessary  result  of  their  exist- 
ence in  any  object  is  not  beauty.  If  we  sup- 
pose proportion  in  natural  things  to  be  rela- 
tive to  custom  and  use,  the  nature  of  use  and 
custom  will  show,  that  beauty,  which  is  a 
positive  and  powerful  quality,  cannot  result 
from  it.  We  are  so  wonderfully  formed, 
that,  whilst  we  are  creatures  vehemently  de- 
sirous of  novelty,  we  are  as  strongly  at- 
tached to  habit  and  custom.  But  it  is  the 
nature  of  things  which  hold  us  by  custom, 
to  affect  us  very  little  whilst  we  are  in  posses- 
sion of  them,  but  strongly  when  they  are  ab- 
sent. I remember  to  have  frequented  a 
certain  place,  every  day  for  a long  time  to- 
gether ; and  I may  truly  say,  that  so  far  from 
finding  pleasure  in  it,  I was  affected  with 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


97 


a sort  of  weariness  and  disgust;  I came,  I 
went,  I returned,  without  pleasure ; yet  if  by 
any  means  I passed  by  the  usual  time  of 
going  thither,  I was  remarkably  uneasy,  and 
was  not  quiet  till  I had  got  into  my  old 
track.  They  who  use  snuff,  take  it  almost 
without  being  sensible  that  they  take  it,  and 
the  acute  sense  of  smell  is  deadened,  so  as  to 
feel  hardly  anything  from  so  sharp  a stimu- 
lus ; yet  deprive  the  snuff -taker  of  his  box, 
and  he  is  the  most  uneasy  mortal  in  the 
world.  Indeed  so  far  are  use  and  habit  from 
being  causes  of  pleasure,  merely  as  such,  that 
the  effect  of  constant  use  is  to  make  all  things 
of  whatever  kind  entirely  unaffecting.  For 
as  use  at  last  takes  off  the  painful  effect  of 
many  things,  it  reduces  the  pleasurable  effect 
in  others  in  the  same  manner,  and  brings  both 
to  a sort  of  mediocrity  and  indifference. 
Very  justly  is  use  called  a second  nature; 
and  our  natural  and  common  state  is  one  of 
absolute  indifference,  equally  prepared  for 
pain  or  pleasure.  But  when  we  are  thrown 
out  of  this  state,  or  deprived  of  anything  req- 
uisite to  maintain  us  in  it ; when  this  chance 
does  not  happen  by  pleasure  from  some  me- 
chanical cause,  we  are  always  hurt.  It  is  so 
with  the  second  nature,  custom,  in  all  things 
which  relate  to  it.  Thus  the  want  of  the  usual 
proportions  in  men  and  other  animals  is  sure 
to  disgust,  though  their  presence  is  by  no 
means  any  cause  of  real  pleasure.  It  is  true, 
that  the  proportions  laid  down  as  causes  of 
beauty  in  the  human  body,  are  frequently 
found  in  beautiful  ones,  because  they  are  gen- 
erally found  in  all  mankind ; but  if  it  can  be 
shown  too,  that  they  are  found  without  beau- 
ty, and  that  beauty  frequently  exists  with- 
out them,  and  that  this  beauty,  where  it  exists, 
always  can  be  assigned  to  other  less  equivocal 
causes,  it  will  naturally  lead  us  to  conclude, 
7 


98 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


that  proportion  and  beauty  are  not  ideas  of  the 
same  nature.  The  true  opposite  to  beauty  is 
not  disproportion  or  deformity,  but  ugliness ; 
and  as  it  proceeds  from  causes  opposite  to 
those  of  positive  beauty,  we  cannot  consider 
it  until  we  come  to  treat  of  that.  Between 
beauty  and  ugliness  there  is  a sort  of  medioc- 
rity, in  which  the  assigned  proportions  are 
most  commonly  found ; but  this  has  no  effect 
upon  the  passions. 

SEC.  VI.— FITNESS  NOT  THE  CAUSE  OF 
BEAUTY. 

It  is  said  that  the  idea  of  utility,  or  of  a 
part’s  being  well  adapted  to  answer  its  end, 
is  the  cause  of  beauty,  or  indeed  beauty  itself. 
If  it  were  not  for  this  opinion,  it  had  been  im- 
possible for  the  doctrine  of  proportion  to  have 
held  its  ground  very  long ; the  world  would 
be  soon  weary  of  hearing  of  measures  which 
related  to  nothing  either  of  a natural  prin- 
ciple, or  of  a fitness  to  answer  some  end ; the 
idea  which  mankind  most  commonly  conceive 
of  proportion,  is  the  suitableness  of  means  to 
certain  ends,  and,  where  this  is  not  the  ques- 
tion, very  seldom  trouble  themselves  about 
the  effect  of  different  measures  of  things. 
Therefore  it  was  necessary  for  this  theory  to 
insist  that  not  only  artificial,  but  natural  ob- 
jects took  their  beauty  from  the  fitness  of  the 
parts  for  their  several  purposes.  But  in 
framing  this  theory,  I am  apprehensive 
that  experience  was  not  sufficiently  con- 
sulted. For,  on  that  principle,  the  wedge- 
like snout  of  a swine,  with  its  tough  cartilage 
at  the  end,  the  little  sunk  eyes,  and  the  whole 
make  of  the  head,  so  well  adapted  to  its  of- 
fices of  digging  and  rooting,  would  be  ex- 
tremely beautiful.  The  great  bag  hanging  to 
the  bill  of  a pelican,  a thing  highly  useful  to 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


99 


this  animal,  would  be  likewise  as  beautiful 
in  our  eyes.  The  hedge-hog,  so  well  secured 
against  all  assaults  by  his  prickly  hide,  and 
the  porcupine  with  his  missile  quills,  would 
be  then  considered  as  creatures  of  no  small 
elegance.  There  are  few  animals  whose  parts 
are  better  contrived  than  those  of  a monkey ; 
he  has  the  hands  of  a man,  joined  to  the 
springy  limbs  of  a beast ; he  is  admirably  cal- 
culated for  running,  leaping,  grappling,  and 
climbing  ; and  yet  there  are  few  animals 
which  seem  to  have  less  beaut  in  the  eyes  of 
all  mankind.  I need  say  little  to  the  trunk  of 
the  elephant,  of  such  various  usefulness,  and 
which  is  so  far  from  contributing  to  his 
beauty.  How  well  fitted  is  the  wolf  for  run- 
ning and  leaping  S how  admirably  is  the  lion 
armed  for  battle  S but  will  any  one  therefore 
call  the  elephant,  the  wolf,  and  the  lion,  beau- 
tiful animals  ? I believe  nobody  will  think 
the  form  of  a man’s  leg  so  well  adapted  to 
running  as  those  of  a horse,  a dog,  a deer, 
and  several  other  creatures;  at  least  they 
have  not  that  appearance:  yet,  I believe,  a 
well-fashioned  human  leg  will  be  allowed  far 
to  exceed  all  these  in  beauty.  If  the  fitness 
of  parts  was  what  constituted  the  loveliness  of 
their  form,  the  actual  employment  of  them 
would  undoubtedly  much  augment  it;  but 
this,  though  it  is  sometimes  so  upon  another 
principle,  is  far  from  being  always  the  case. 
A bird  on  the  wing  is  not  so  beautiful  as  when 
it  is  perched ; nay,  there  are  several  of  the 
domestic  fowls  which  are  seldom  seen  to  fly, 
and  which  are  nothing  the  less  beautiful  on 
that  account ; yet  birds  are  so  extremely  dif- 
ferent in  their  form  from  the  beast  and  hu- 
man kinds,  that  you  cannot,  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  fitness,  allow  them  anything  agree- 
able, but  in  consideration  of  their  parts  being 
designed  for  quite  other  purposes.  I never  in 


100 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


my  life  chanced  to  see  a peacock  fly ; and  yet 
before,  very  long  before  I considered  any  apt- 
itude in  his  form  for  the  serial  life,  I was 
struck  with  the  extreme  beauty  which  raises 
that  bird  above  many  of  the  best  flying  fowls 
in  the  world;  though,  for  anything  I saw, 
his  way  of  living  was  much  like  that  of  the 
swine,  which  fed  in  the  farm-yard  along  with 
him.  The  same  may  be  said  of  cocks, 
hens,  and  the  like;  they  are  of  the  flying 
kind  in  figure;  in  their  manner  of  moving 
not  very  different  from  men  and  beasts.  To 
leave  these  foreign  examples;  if  beauty  in 
our  own  species  was  annexed  to  use,  men 
would  be  much  more  lovely  than  women; 
and  strength  and  agility  would  be  considered 
as  the  only  beauties.  But  to  call  strength  by 
the  name  of  beauty,  to  have  but  one  denomi- 
nation for  the  qualities  of  a Venus  and  Her- 
cules, so  totally  different  in  almost  all  re- 
spects, is  surely  a strange  confusion  of  ideas, 
or  abuse  of  words.  The  cause  of  this  confu- 
sion, I imagine,  proceeds  from  our  frequently 
perceiving  the  parts  of  the  human  and  other 
animal  bodies  to  be  at  once  very  beautiful, 
and  very  well  adapted  to  their  purposes ; and 
we  are  deceived  by  a sophism,  which  makes 
us  take  that  for  a cause  which  is  only  a con- 
comitant : this  is  the  sophism  of  the  fly,  who 
imagined  he  raised  a great  dust,  because  he 
stood  upon  the  chariot  that  really  raised  it. 
The  stomach,  the  lungs,  the  liver,  as  well  as 
other  parts,  are  incomparably  well  adapted  to 
their  purposes ; yet  they  are  far  from  having 
any  beauty.  Again,  many  things  are  very 
beautiful,  in  which  it  is  impossible  to  discern 
any  idea  of  use.  And  I appeal  to  the  first  and 
most  natural  feelings  of  mankind,  whether, 
on  beholding  a beautiful  eye,  or  a well-fash- 
ioned mouth,  or  a well-turned  leg,  any  ideas 
of  their  being  well  fitted  for  seeing,  eating,  or 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


101 


running,  ever  present  themselves.  What 
idea  of  use  is  it  that  flowers  excite,  the  most 
beautiful  part  of  the  vegetable  world?  It  is 
true,  that  the  infinitely  wise  and  good  Creator 
has,  of  his  bounty,  frequently  joined  beauty 
to  those  things  which  he  has  made  useful  to 
us;  but  this  does  not  prove  that  an  idea  of 
use  and  beauty  are  the  same  thing,  or  that 
they  are  any  way  dependent  on  each  other. 

SEC.  VIL— THE  BEAL  EFFECTS  OF  FIT- 
NESS. 

When  I excluded  proportion  and  fitness 
from  any  share  in  beauty,  I did  not  by  any 
means  intend  to  say  that  they  were  of  no 
value,  or  that  they  ought  to  be  disregarded 
in  works  of  art.  Works  of  art  are  the  proper 
sphere  of  their  power ; and  here  it  is  that  they 
have  their  full  effect.  Whenever  the  wisdom 
of  our  Creator  intended  that  we  should  be  ef- 
fected with  anything,  he  did  not  confine  the 
execution  of  his  design  to  the  languid  and 
precarious  operation  of  our  reason;  but  he 
endued  it  with  powers  and  properties  that 
prevent  the  understanding,  and  even  the 
will,  which  seizing  upon  the  senses  and  im- 
agination, captivate  the  soul  before  the  under- 
standing is  ready  either  to  join  with  them,  or 
to  oppose  them.  It  is  by  a long  deduction,  and 
much  study,  that  we  discover  the  adorable 
wisdom  of  God  in  his  works:  when  we  dis- 
cover it,  the  effect  is  very  different,  not  only 
in  the  manner  of  acquiring  it,  but  in  its  own 
nature,  from  that  which  strikes  us  without 
any  preparation  from  the  sublime  or  the  beau- 
tiful. How  different  is  the  satisfaction  of  an 
anatomist,  who  discovers  the  use  of  the  mus- 
cles and  of  the  skin,  the  excellent  contrivance 
of  the  one  for  the  various  movements  of  the 
body,  and  the  wonderful  texture  of  the  other, 


102 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


at  once  a general  covering,  and  at  once  a gen- 
eral outlet  as  well  as  inlet ; how  different  is 
this  from  the  affection  which  possesses  an 
ordinary  man  at  the  sight  of  a delicate 
smooth  skin,  and  all  the  other  parts  of  beauty, 
which  require  no  investigation  to  be  per- 
ceived ! In  the  former  case,  whilst  we  look 
up  to  the  Maker  with  admiration  and  praise, 
the  object  which  causes  it  may  be  odious  and 
distasteful ; the  latter  very  often  so  touches 
us  by  its  power  on  the  imagination,  that  we 
examine  but  little  into  the  artifice  of  its  con- 
trivance ; and  we  have  need  of  a strong  effort 
of  our  reason  to  disentangle  our  minds  from 
the  allurements  of  the  object,  to  a consider- 
ation of  that  wisdom  which  invented  so 
powerful  a machine.  The  effect  of  proportion 
and  fitness,  at  least  so  far  as  they  proceed 
from  a mere  consideration  of  the  work  itself, 
produce  approbation,  the  acquiescence  of  the 
understanding,  but  not  love,  nor  any  passion 
of  that  species.  When  we  examine  the 
structure  of  a watch,  when  we  come  to  know 
thoroughly  the  use  of  every  part  of  it,  satis- 
fied as  we  are  with  the  fitness  of  the  whole, 
we  are  far  enough  from  perceiving  anything 
like  beauty  in  the  watch  work  itself ; but  let 
us  look  on  the  case,  the  labor  of  some  curious 
artist  in  engraving,  with  little  or  no  idea  of 
use,  we  shall  have  a much  livelier  idea  of 
beauty  than  we  ever  could  have  had  from 
the  watch  itself,  though  the  masterpiece  of 
Graham.  In  beauty,  as  I said,  the  effect  is 
previous  to  any  knowledge  of  the  use,  but  to 
judge  of  proportion,  we  must  know  the  end 
for  which  any  work  is  designed.  According 
to  the  end,  the  proportion  varies.  Thus  there 
is  one  proportion  of  a tower,  another  of  a 
house ; one  proportion  of  a gallery,  another 
of  a hall,  another  of  a chamber.  To  judge  of 
the  proportions  of  these,  you  must  be  first 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


103 


acquainted  with  the  purposes  for  which  they 
were  designed.  Good  sense  and  experience 
acting  together,  find  out  what  is  fit  to  be  done 
in  every  work  of  art.  We  are  rational  creat- 
ures, and  in  all  our  works  we  ought  to  regard 
their  end  and  purpose;  the  gratification  of 
any  passion,  how  innocent  soever,  ought  only 
to  be  of  secondary  consideration.  Herein  is 
placed  the  real  power  of  fitness  and  propor- 
tion ; they  operate  on  the  understanding  con- 
sidering them,  which  approves  the  work  and 
acquiesces  in  it.  The  passions,  and  the  im- 
agination which  principally  raises  them,  have 
here  very  little  to  do.  When  a room  appears 
in  its  original  nakedness,  hare  walls  and  a 
plain  ceiling ; let  its  proportion  be  ever  so  ex- 
cellent, it  pleases  very  little ; a cold  approba- 
tion is  the  utmost  we  can  reach ; a much 
worse-proportioned  room  with  elegant  mould- 
ings and  fine  festoons,  glasses  and  other 
merely  ornamental  furniture,  will  make  the 
imagination  revolt  against  the  reason ; it  will 
please  much  more  than  the  naked  proportion 
of  the  first  room,  which  the  understanding 
has  so  much  approved,  as  admirably  fitted  for 
its  purposes.  What  I have  here  said  and  be- 
fore concerning  proportion,  is  by  no  means 
to  persuade  people  absurdly  to  neglect  the 
idea  of  use  in  the  works  of  art.  It  is  only  to 
show  that  these  excellent  things,  beauty  and 
proportion,  are  not  the  same ; not  that  they 
should  either  of  them  be  disregarded. 

SEC.  VIII.—1 THE  RECAPITULATION. 

On  the  whole;  if  such  parts  in  human 
bodies  as  are  found  proportioned,  were  like- 
wise constantly  found  beautiful,  as  they  cer- 
tainly are  not ; or  if  they  were  so  situated,  as 
that  a pleasure  might  flow  from  the  compari- 
son, which  they  seldom  are ; or  if  any  assign- 


104 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


able  proportions  were  found,  either  in  plants 
or  animals,  which  were  always  attended  with 
beauty,  which  never  was  the  case;  or  if, 
where  parts  were  well  adapted  to  their  pur- 
poses, they  were  constantly  beautiful,  and 
when  no  use  appeared,  there  was  no  beauty 
which  is  contrary  to  all  experience,  we 
might  conclude,  that  beauty  consisted  in 
proportion  or  utility.  But  since,  in  all  re- 
spects, the  case  is  quite  otherwise ; we  may 
be  satisfied  that  beauty  does  not  depend  on 
these,  let  it  owe  its  origin  to  what  else  it  will. 


SEC.  IX.— PERFECTION  NOT  THE  CAUSE 
OF  BEAUTY. 

There  is  another  notion  current,  pretty 
closely  allied  to  the  former ; that  Perfection 
is  the  constituent  cause  of  beauty.  This 
opinion  has  been  made  to  extend  much  far- 
ther than  to  sensible  objects.  But  in  these, 
so  far  is  perfection,  considered  as  such,  from 
being  the  cause  of  beauty,  that  this  quality, 
where  it  is  highest,  in  the  female  sex,  almost 
always  carries  with  it  an  idea  of  weakness 
and  imperfection.  Women  are  very  sensible 
of  this ; for  which  reason,  they  learn  to  lisp, 
to  totter  in  their  walk,  to  counterfeit  weakness 
and  even  sickness.  In  all  this  they  are  guided 
by  nature.  Beauty  in  distress  is  much  the 
most  affecting  beauty.  Blushing  has  little 
less  power ; and  modesty  in  general,  which  is 
a tacit  allowance  of  imperfection,  is  itself 
considered  as  an  amiable  quality,  and  cer- 
tainly heightens  every  other  that  is  so.  I 
know  it  is  in  everybody’s  mouth,  that  we 
ought  to  love  perfection.  This  is  to  me  a 
sufficient  proof  that  it  is  not  the  proper  object 
of  love.  Who  ever  said  we  ought  to  love  a 
fine  woman,  or  even  any  of  these  beautiful 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


105 


animals  which  please  us  ? Here  to  be  affected, 
there  is  no  need  of  the  concurrence  of  our 
will. 

SEC.  X.—  HOW  FAR  THE  IDEA  OF 
BEAUTY  MAY  BE  APPLIED  TO  THE 
QUALITIES  OF  THE  MIND. 

Nor  is  this  remark  in  general  less  applicable 
to  the  qualities  of  the  mind.  Those  virtues 
which  cause  admiration,  and  are  of  the  sub- 
limer  kind,  produce  terror  rather  than  love ; 
such  as  fortitude,  justice,  wisdom,  and  the 
like.  Never  was  any  man  amiable  by  force  of 
these  qualities.  Those  which  engage  our 
hearts,  which  impress  us  with  a sense  of  love- 
liness, are  the  softer  virtues;  easiness  of 
temper,  compassion,  kindness,  and  liberality ; 
though  certainly  those  latter  are  of  less  im- 
mediate and  momentous  concern  to  society, 
and  of  less  dignity.  But  it  is  for  that  reason 
that  they  are  so  amiable.  The  great  virtues 
turn  principally  on  dangers,  punishments,  and 
troubles,  and  are  exercised  rather  in  prevent- 
ing the  worst  mischiefs,  than  in  dispensing 
favors ; and  are  therefore  not  lovely,  though 
highly  venerable.  The  subordinate  turn  on 
reliefs,  gratifications,  and  indulgences;  and 
are  therefore  more  lovely,  though  inferior  in 
dignity.  Those  persons  who  creep  into  the 
hearts  of  most  people,  who  are  chosen  as  the 
companions  of  their  softer  hours,  and  their 
reliefs  from  care  and  anxiety,  are  never  per- 
sons of  shining  qualities  or  strong  virtues.  It 
is  rather  the  soft  green  of  the  soul  on  which 
we  rest  our  eyes  that  are  fatigued  with  be- 
holding more  glaring  objects.  It  is  worth  ob- 
serving how  we  feel  ourselves  affected  in 
reading  the  characters  of  Caesar  and  Cato,  as 
they  are  so  finely  drawn  and  contrasted  in 
Sallust.  In  one  the  ignoscendo  largiundo;  in 


106 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


the  other,  nil  largiundo.  In  one  the  miseris 
perfugium ; in  the  other,  mails  perniciem. 
In  the  latter  we  have  much  to  admire,  much 
to  reverence,  and  perhaps  something  to  fear ; 
we  respect  him,  but  we  respect  him  at  a dis- 
tance. The  former  makes  us  familiar  with 
him ; we  love  him,  and  he  leads  us  whither  he 
pleases.  To  draw  things  closer  to  our  first 
and  most  natural  feelings,  I will  add  a remark 
made  upon  reading  this  section  by  an  ingen- 
ious friend.  The  authority  of  a father,  so 
useful  to  our  well-being,  and  so  justly  vener- 
able upon  all  accounts,  hinders  us  from  hav- 
ing that  entire  love  for  him  that  we  have  for 
our  mothers,  where  the  parental  authority  is 
almost  melted  down  into  the  mother’s  fond- 
ness and  indulgence.  But  we  generally  have 
a great  love  for  our  grandfathers  in  whom  this 
authority  is  removed  a degree  from  us,  and 
where  the  weakness  of  age  mellows  it  into 
something  of  a feminine  partiality. 

SEC.  XI.— HOW  FAR  THE  IDEA  OF 

BEAUTY  MAY  BE  APPLIED  TO  VIR- 
TUE. 

From  what  has  been  said  in  the  foregoing 
section,  we  may  easily  see  how  far  the  applica- 
tion of  beauty  to  virtue,  may  be  made  with 
propriety.  The  general  application  of  this 
quality  of  virtue,  has  a strong  tendency  to 
confound  our  ideas  of  things ; and  it  has  given 
rise  to  an  infinite  deal  of  whimsical  theory ; 
as  the  affixing  the  name  of  beauty  to  propor- 
tion, congruity,  and  perfection,  as  well  as  to 
qualities  of  things  yet  more  remote  from  our 
natural  ideas  of  it,  and  from  one  another,  has 
tended  to  confound  our  ideas  of  beauty,  and 
left  us  no  standard  or  rule  to  judge  by,  that 
was  not  even  more  uncertain  and  fallacious 
than  our  own  fancies.  This  loose  and  inaccur- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


107 


ate  manner  of  speaking,  has  therefore  mis- 
led us  both  in  the  theory  of  taste  and  of  mor- 
als ; and  induced  us  to  remove  the  science  of 
our  duties  from  their  proper  basis,  (our  rea- 
son, our  relations,  and  our  necessities)  to  rest 
it  upon  foundations  altogether  visionary  and 
unsubstantial. 

SEC.  XII.— THE  REAL  CAUSE  OF 
BEAUTY. 

Having  endeavored  to  show  what  beauty  is 
not,  it  remains  that  we  should  examine,  at 
least  with  equal  attention,  in  what  it  really 
consists.  Beauty  is  a thing  much  too  affect- 
ing not  to  depend  upon  some  positive  quali- 
ties. And  since  it  is  no  creature  of  our  reason, 
since  it  strikes  us  without  any  reference  to 
use,  and  even  where  no  use  at  all  can  be  dis- 
cerned, since  the  order  and  method  of  nature 
is  generally  very  different  from  our  measures 
and  proportions  we  must  conclude  that  beauty 
is,  for  the  greater  part,  some  quality  in  bodies 
acting  mechanically  upon  the  human  mind 
by  the  intervention  of  the  senses.  We  ought 
therefore  to  consider  attentively  in  what 
manner  those  sensible  qualities  are  disposed, 
in  such  things  as  by  experience  we  find  beau- 
tiful, or  which  excite  in  us  the  passion  of 
love,  or  some  correspondent  affection. 

SEC.  XIII. -BEAUTIFUL  OBJECTS 
SMALL. 

The  most  obvious  point  that  presents  itself 
to  us  in  examining  any  object,  is  its  extent 
or  quantity.  And  what  degree  of  extent  pre- 
vails in  bodies  that  are  held  beautiful,  may  be 
gathered  from  the  usual  manner  of  expression 
concerning  it.  I am  told  that,  in  most  lan- 
guages, the  objects  of  love  are  spoken  of  under 
diminutive  epithets.  It  is  so  in  all  the  lan- 


108 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


guages  of  which  I have  any  knowledge.  In 
Greek  the  iuv  and  other  diminutive  terms  are 
almost  always  the  terms  of  affection  and  ten- 
derness. These  diminutives  were  commonly 
added  by  the  Greeks,  to  the  names  of  persons 
with  whom  they  conversed  on  the  terms  of 
friendship  and  familiarity.  Though  the 
Komans  were  a people  of  less  quick  and  deli- 
cate feelings,  yet  they  naturally  slid  into  the 
lessening  termination  upon  the  same  occa- 
sions. Anciently  in  the  English  language  the 
diminishing  ling  was  added  to  the  names  of 
persons  and  things  that  were  the  objects  of 
love.  Some  we  retain  still,  as  darling  (or 
little  dear),  and  a few-  others.  But  to  this 
day,  in  ordinary  conversation,  it  is  usual  to 
add  the  endearing  name  of  little  to  every- 
thing we  love : the  French  and  Italians  make 
use  of  these  affectionate  diminutives  even 
more  than  we.  In  the  animal  creation,  out 
of  our  own  species,  it  is  the  small  we  are  in- 
clined to  be  fond  of ; little  birds,  and  some  of 
the  smaller  kinds  of  beasts.  A great  beauti- 
ful thing  is  a manner  of  expression  scarcely 
ever  used ; but  that  of  a great  ugly  thing,  is 
very  common.  There  is  a wide  difference  be- 
tween admiration  and  love.  The  sublime, 
which  is  the  cause  of  the  former,  always 
dwells  on  great  objects,  and  terrible;  the  lat- 
ter on  small  ones,  and  pleasing ; we  submit  to 
what  we  admire,  but  we  love  wdiat  submits  to 
us;  in  one  case  we  are  forced,  in  the  other 
we  are  flattered,  into  compliance.  In  short, 
the  ideas  of  the  sublime  and  the  beautiful 
stand  on  foundations  so  different,  that  it  is 
hard,  I had  almost  said  impossible,  to  think 
of  reconciling  them  in  the  same  subject,  with- 
out considerably  lessening  the  effect  of  the 
one  or  the  other  upon  the  passions.  So  that, 
attending  to  their  quantity,  beautiful  objects 
are  comparatively  small. 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


109 


SEC.  XIV.  —SMOOTHNESS. 

The  next  property  constantly  observable  in 
such  objects  is  Smoothness;  a quality  so  essen- 
tial to  beauty,  that  I do  not  now  recollect  any- 
thing beautiful  that  is  not  smooth.  In  trees 
and  flowers,  smooth  leaves  are  beautiful; 
smooth  slopes  of  earth  in  gardens;  smooth 
streams  in  the  landscape;  smooth  coats  of 
birds  and  beasts  in  animal  beauties ; in  fine 
women,  smooth  skins ; and  in  several  sorts  of 
ornamental  furniture,  smooth  and  polished 
surfaces.  A very  considerable  part  of  the 
effect  of  beauty  is  owing  to  this  quality ; in- 
deed the  most  considerable.  For  take  any 
beautiful  object,  and  give  it  a broken  and 
rugged  surface ; and  however  well  formed  it 
may  be  in  other  respects,  it  pleases  no  longer. 
Whereas,  let  it  want  ever  so  many  of  the 
other  constituents,  if  it  wants  not  this,  it  be- 
comes more  pleasing  than  almost  all  the 
others  without  it.  This  seems  to  me  so  evi- 
dent, that  I am  a good  deal  surprised,  that 
none  who  have  handled  the  subject  have 
made  any  mention  of  the  quality  of  smooth- 
ness, in  the  enumeration  of  those  that  go  to 
the  forming  of  beauty.  For  indeed  any 
ruggedness,  any  sudden  projection,  any  sharp 
angle,  is  in  the  highest  degree  contrary  to 
that  idea. 


SEC.  XV.—  GRADUAL  VARIATION. 

But  as  perfectly  beautiful  bodies  are  not 
composed  of  angular  parts,  so  their  parts 
never  continue  long  in  the  same  right  line. 
They  vary  their  direction  every  moment, 
and  they  change  under  the  eye  by  a devia- 
tion continually  carrying  on,  but  for  whose 
beginning  or  end  you  will  find  it  difficult  to 


110 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


ascertain  a point.  The  view  of  a beautiful 
bird  will  illustrate  this  observation.  Here 
we  see  the  head  increasing  insensibly  to  the 
middle,  from  whence  it  lessens  gradually 
until  it  mixes  with  the  neck ; the  neck  loses 
itself  in  a larger  swell,  which  continues  to 
the  middle  of  the  body,  when  the  whole  de- 
creases again  to  the  tail ; the  tail  takes  a new 
direction ; but  it  soon  varies  its  new  course ; 
it  blends  again  with  the  other  parts ; and  the 
line  is  perpetually  changing,  above,  below, 
upon  every  side.  In  this  description  I have 
before  me  the  idea  of  a dove ; it  agrees  very 
well  with  most  of  the  conditions  of  beauty. 
It  is  smooth  and  downy ; its  parts  are  (to  use 
that  expression)  melted  into  one  another ; you 
are  presented  with  no  sudden  protuberance 
through  the  whole,  and  yet  the  whole  is  con- 
tinually changing.  Observe  that  part  of  a 
beautiful  woman  where  shu  is  perhaps  the 
most  beautiful,  about  the  neck  and  breasts ; 
the  smoothness;  the  softness;  the  easy  and 
insensible  swell ; the  variety  of  the  surface, 
which  is  never  for  the  smallest  space  the 
same : the  deceitful  maze,  through  which  the 
unsteady  eye  slides  giddily,  without  knowing 
where  to  fix  or  whither  it  is  carried.  Is  not 
this  a demonstration  of  that  change  of  sur- 
face, continual,  and  yet  hardly  perceptible  at 
any  point,  which  forms  one  of  the  great  con- 
stituents of  beauty  ? It  gives  me  no  small 
pleasure  to  find  that  I can  strengthen  my 
theory  in  this  point,  by  the  opinion  of  the 
very  ingenious  Mr.  Hogarth ; whose  idea  of 
the  line  of  beauty  I take  in  general  to  be  ex- 
tremely just.  But  the  idea  of  variation,  with- 
out attending  so  accurately  to  the  manner  of 
the  variation,  has  led  him  to  consider  angular 
figures  as  beautiful : these  figures,  it  is  true, 
vary  greatly ; yet  they  vary  in  a sudden  and 
broken  manner;  and  I do  not  find  any  nat- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


Ill 


ural  object  which  is  angular,  and  at  the  same 
time  beautiful.  Indeed  few  natural  objects 
are  entirely  angular.  But  I think  those 
which  approach  the  most  nearly  to  it  are  the 
ugliest.  I must  add  too,  that,  so  far  as  I 
could  observe  of  nature,  though  the  varied 
line  is  that  alone  in  which  complete  beauty  is 
found,  yet  there  is  no  particular  line  which  is 
always  found  in  the  most  completely  beauti- 
ful, and  which  is  therefore  beautiful  in  prefer- 
ence to  all  other  lines.  At  least  I never 
could  observe  it. 

SEC.  XVI.— DELICACY. 

An  air  of  robustness  and  strength  is  very 
prejudicial  to  beauty.  An  appearance  of  del- 
icacy., and  even  of  fragility,  is  almost  essen- 
tial to  it.  Whoever  examines  the  vegetable 
or  animal  creation,  will  find  this  observation 
to  be  founded  in  nature.  It  is  not  the  oak, 
the  ash,  or  the  elm,  or  any  of  the  robust  trees 
of  the  forest,  which  we  consider  as  beautiful ; 
they  are  awful  and  majestic;  they  inspire  a 
sort  of  reverence.  It  is  the  delicate  myrtle, 
it  is  the  orange,  it  is  the  almond,  it  is  the  jas- 
mine, it  is  the  vine,  which  we  look  on  as  veg- 
etable beauties.  It  is  the  flowery  species,  so 
remarkable  for  its  weakness  and  momentary 
duration,  that  gives  us  the  liveliest  idea  of 
beauty  and  elegance.  Among  animals,  the 
greyhound  is  more  beautiful  than  the  mas- 
tiff ; and  the  delicacy  of  a gennet,  a barb,  or 
an  Arabian  horse,  is  much  more  amiable  than 
the  strength  and  stability  of  some  horses  of 
war  or  carriage.  I need  here  say  little  of  the 
fair  sex,  where  I believe  the  point  wull  be 
easily  allowed  me.  The  beauty  of  women  is 
considerably  owing  to  their  weakness  or  deli- 
cacy, and  is  even  enhanced  by  their  timidity, 
a quality  of  mind  analogous  to  it.  I would 


112 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


not  here  be  understood  to  say,  that  weakness 
betraying  very  had  health  has  any  share  in 
beauty ; but  the  ill  effect  of  this  is  not  because 
it  is  weakness,  but  because  the  ill  state  of 
health  which  produces  such  weakness,  alters 
the  other  conditions  of  beauty ; the  parts  in 
such  a case  collapse;  the  bright  color,  the 
lumen  purpureum  juventce,  is  gone;  and  the 
fine  variation  is  lost  in  wrinkles,  sudden 
breaks,  and  right  lines. 

SEC.  XVII.—  BEAUTY  IN  COLOR. 

As  to  the  colors  usually  found  in  beautiful 
bodies,  it  may  be  somewhat  difficult  to  ascer- 
tain them,  because,  in  several  parts  of  na- 
ture, there  is  an  infinite  variety.  However, 
even  in  this  variety,  we  may  mark  out  some- 
thing on  which  to  settle.  First,  the  colors  of 
beautiful  bodies  must  not  be  dusky  or  muddy, 
but  clean  and  fair.  Secondly,  they  must  not 
be  of  the  strongest  kind.  Those  which  seem 
most  appropriated  to  beauty,  are  the  milder 
of  every  sort ; light  greens ; soft  blues ; weak 
whites;  pink  reds;  and  violets.  Thirdly,  if 
the  colors  be  strong  and  vivid,  they  are 
always  diversified,  and  the  object  is  never  of 
one  strong  color;  there  are  almost  always 
such  a number  of  them,  (as  in  variegated 
flowers)  that  the  strength  and  glare  of  each 
is  considerably  abated.  In  a fine  complexion, 
there  is  not  only  some  variety  in  the  color- 
ing, but  the  colors;  neither  the  red  nor  the 
white  are  strong  and  glaring.  Besides,  they 
are  mixed  in  such  a manner,  and  with  such 
gradations,  that  it  is  impossible  to  fix  the 
bounds.  On  the  same  principle  it  is,  that  the 
dubious  color  in  the  necks  and  tails  of  pea- 
cocks, and  about  the  heads  of  drakes,  is  so 
very  agreeable.  In  reality,  the  beauty  both 
of  shape  and  coloring  are  as  nearly  related, 


AND  BE  A UTIFUL. 


113 


as  we  can  well  suppose  it  possible  for  things 
of  such  different  natures  to  be. 

SEC.  XVIII. — RECAPITULATION. 

On  the  whole,  the  qualities  of  beauty,  as 
they  are  merely  sensible  qualities,  are  the 
following:  First,  to  be  comparatively  small. 
Secondly,  to  be  smooth.  Thirdly,  to  have  a 
variety  in  the  direction  of  the  parts;  but, 
fourthly,  to  have  those  parts  not  angular,  but 
melted  as  it  were  into  each  other.  Fifthly, 
to  be  of  a delicate  frame,  without  any  re- 
markable appearance  of  strength.  Sixthly, 
to  have  its  colors  clear  and  bright,  but  not 
very  strong  and  glaring.  Seventhly,  or  if  it 
should  have  any  glaring  color,  to  have  it 
diversified  with  others.  These  are,  I believe, 
the  properties  on  which  beauty  depends; 
properties  that  operate  by  nature,  and  are 
less  liable  to  be  altered  by  caprice,  or  con- 
founded by  a diversity  of  tastes,  than  any 
other. 

SEC.  XIX.— THE  PHYSIOGNOMY. 

The  Physiognomy  has  a considerable  share 
in  beauty,  especially  in  that  of  our  own  spe- 
cies. The  manners  give  a certain  determina- 
tion to  the  countenance ; which  being  observ- 
ed to  correspond  pretty  regularly  with  them,  is 
capable  of  joining  the  effects  of  certain  agree- 
able qualities  of  the  mind  to  those  of  the 
body.  So  that  to  form  a finished  human 
beauty,  and  to  give  it  its  full  influence,  the 
face  must  be  expressive  of  such  gentle  and 
amiable  qualities,  as  correspond  with  the 
softness,  smoothness,  and  delica-cy  of  the  out- 
ward form. 

8 


114 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


SEC.  XX.— THE  EYE. 

I have  hitherto  purposely  omitted  to  speak 
of  the  Eye , which  has  so  great  a share  in  the 
beauty  of  the  animal  creation,  as  it  did  not 
fall  so  easily  under  the  foregoing  heads, 
though  in  fact  it  is  reducible  to  the  same  prin- 
ciples. I think  then,  that  the  beauty  of  the 
eye  consists,  first,  in  its  clearness;  what 
colored  eye  shall  please  most,  depends  a good 
deal  on  particular  fancies;  but  none  are 
pleased  with  an  eye  whose  water  (to  use  that 
term)  is  dull  and  muddy.  We  are  pleased 
with  the  eye  in  this  view,  on  the  principle 
upon  which  we  like  diamonds,  clear  water, 
glass,  and  such  like  transparent  substances. 
Secondly,  the  motion  of  the  eye  contributes 
to  its  beauty,  by  continually  shifting  its  di- 
rection; but  a slow  and  languid  motion  is 
more  beautiful  than  a brisk  one ; the  latter  is 
enlivening ; the  former  lovely.  Thirdly,  with 
regard  to  the  union  of  the  eye  with  the  neigh- 
boring parts,  it  is  to  hold  the  same  rule  that 
is  given  of  other  beautiful  ones ; it  is  not  to 
make  a strong  deviation  from  the  line  of  the 
neighboring  parts;  nor  to  verge  into  any  ex- 
act geometrical  figure.  Besides  all  this,  the 
eye  affects,  as  it  is  expressive  of  some  quali- 
ties of  the  mind,  and  its  principal  power  gen- 
erally arises  from  this ; so  that  what  we  have 
just  said  of  the  physiognomy  is  applicable 
here. 


SEC.  XXI.— UGLINESS. 

It  may  perhaps  appear  like  a sort  of  repe- 
tition of  what  we  have  before  said,  to  insist 
here  upon  the  nature  of  Ugliness  ; as  I imag- 
ine it  to  be  in  all  respects  the  opposite  to 
those  qualities  which  we  have  laid  down  for 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


115 


the  constituents  of  beauty.  But  though  ugli- 
ness be  the  opposite  to  beauty,  it  is  not  the 
opposite  to  proportion  and  fitness.  For  it  is 
possible  that  a thing  may  be  very  ugly  with 
any  proportions,  and  with  a perfect  fitness  to 
any  uses.  Ugliness  I imagine  likewise  to  be 
consistent  enough  with  an  idea  of  the  sub- 
lime. But  I would  by  no  means  insinuate 
that  ugliness  of  itself  is  a sublime  idea,  unless 
united  with  such  qualities  as  excite  a strong 
terror. 


SEC.  XXII.—  GRACE. 

Gracefulness  is  an  idea  not  very  different 
from  beauty  ; it  consists  in  much  the  same 
things.  Gracefulness  is  an  idea  belonging  to 
posture  and  motion.  In  both  these,  to  be 
graceful,  it  is  requisite  that  there  be  no  ap- 
pearance of  difficulty;  there  is  required  a 
small  inflexion  of  the  body ; and  a composure 
of  the  parts  in  such  a manner,  as  not  to  in- 
cumber each  other,  not  to  appear  divided  by 
sharp  and  sudden  angles.  In  this  ease,  this 
roundness,  this  delicacy  of  attitude  and  mo- 
tion, it  is  that  all  the  magic  of  grace  consists, 
and  what  is  called  its  je  ne  seal  quoi ; as  will 
be  obvious  to  any  observer,  who  considers 
attentively  the  Venus  de  Medicis,  the  Anti- 
nous,  or  any  statue  generally  allowed  to  be 
graceful  in  a high  degree. 

SEC.  XXIII. — ELEGANCE  AND  SPE- 
CIOUSNESS. 

When  anybody  is  composed  of  parts 
smooth  and  polished,  without  pressing  upon 
each  other,  without  showing  any  ruggedness 
or  confusion,  and  at  the  same  time  affecting 
some  regular  shape , I call  it  elegant.  It  is 
closely  allied  to  the  beautiful,  differing  from 


116 


01 V THE  SUBLIME 


it  only  in  this  regularity;  which,  however,  as 
it  makes  a very  material  difference  in  the 
affection  produced,  may  very  well  constitute 
another  species.  Under  this  head  I rank 
those  delicate  and  regular  works  of  art,  that 
imitate  no  determinate  object  in  nature,  as 
elegant  buildings,  and  pieces  of  furniture. 
When  any  object  partakes  of  the  above  men- 
tioned qualities,  or  of  those  of  beautiful 
bodies,  and  is  withal  of  great  dimensions,  it 
is  full  as  remote  from  the  idea  of  mere 
beauty ; I call  it  fine  or  specious. 

SEC.  XXIV.— THE  BEAUTIFUL  IN  FEEL- 
ING. 

The  foregoing  description  of  beauty,  so  far 
as  it  is  taken  in  by  the  eye,  may  be  greatly 
illustrated  by  describing  the  nature  of  ob- 
jects, which  produce  a similar  effect  through 
the  touch.  This  I call  the  beautiful  in  Feel- 
ing. It  corresponds  wonderfully  with  what 
causes  the  same  species  of  pleasure  to  the 
sight.  There  is  a chain  in  all  our  sensations ; 
they  are  all  but  different  sorts  of  feelings  cal- 
culated to  be  affected  by  various  sorts  of  ob- 
jects, but  all  to  be  affected  after  the  same 
manner.  All  bodies  that  are  pleasant  to  the 
touch,  are  so  by  the  slightness  of  the  resist- 
ance they  make.  Resistance  is  either  to  mo- 
tion along  the  surface,  or  to  the  pressure  of 
the  parts  on  one  another;  if  the  former  be 
slight,  we  call  the  body  smooth ; if  the  latter, 
soft.  The  chief  pleasure  we  receive  by  feel- 
ing, is  in  the  one  or  the  other  of  these  qual 
ities ; and  if  there  be  a combination  of  both, 
our  pleasure  is  greatly  increased.  This  is  so 
plain,  that  it  is  rather  more  fit  to  illustrate 
other  things,  than  to  be  illustrated  itself  by 
an  example.  The  next  source  of  pleasure  in 
this  sense,  as  in  every  other,  is  the  continu- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


117 


ally  presenting  somewhat  new ; and  we  find 
that  bodies  which  continually  vary  their  sur- 
face, are  much  the  most  pleasant  or  beautiful 
to  the  feeling,  as  any  one  that  pleases  may 
experience.  The  third  property  in  such  ob- 
jects is,  that  though  the  surface  continually 
varies  its  direction,  it  never  varies  it  suddenly. 
The  application  of  anything  sudden,  even 
though  the  impression  itself  have  little  or 
nothing  of  violence,  is  disagreeable.  The 
quick  application  of  a finger  a little  warmer 
or  colder  than  usual,  without  notice,  makes 
us  start ; a slight  tap  on  the  shoulder,  not  ex- 
pected, has  the  same  effect.  Hence  it  is  that 
angular  bodies,  bodies  that  suddenly  vary  the 
direction  of  the  outline,  afford  so  little  pleas- 
ure to  the  feeling.  Every  such  change  is  a 
sort  of  climbing  or  falling  in  miniature;  so 
that  squares,  triangles,  and  other  angular 
figures,  are  neither  beautiful  to  the  sight  nor 
feeling.  Whoever  compares  his  state  of- 
mind,  on  feeling  soft,  smooth,  variegated,  un- 
angular  bodies,  with  that  in  which  he  finds 
himself  on  the  view  of  a beautiful  object,  will 
perceive  a very  striking  analogy  in  the  effects 
of  both ; and  which  may  go  a good  way  tow- 
ards discovering  their  common  cause.  Feel- 
ing and  sight,  in  this  respect,  differ  in 
but  a few  points.  The  touch  takes  in  the 
pleasure  of  softness,  which  is  not  primarily 
an  object  of  sight;  the  sight,  on  the  other 
hand,  comprehends  color,  which  can  hardly 
be  made  perceptible  to  the  touch ; the  touch 
again  has  the  advantage  in  a new  idea  of 
pleasure  resulting  from  a moderate  degree  of 
warmth ; but  the  eye  triumphs  in  the  infinite 
extent  and  multiplicity  of  its  objects.  But 
there  is  such  a similitude  in  the  pleasures  of 
these  senses,  that  I am  apt  to  fancy,  if  it  were 
possible  that  one  might  discern  color  by  feel- 
ing (as  it  is  said  some  blind  men  have  done) 


118 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


that  the  same  colors,  and  the  same  disposition 
of  coloring,  which  are  found  beautiful  to  the 
sight,  would  be  found  likewise  most  grateful 
to  the  touch.  But,  setting  aside  conjectures, 
let  us  pass  to  the  other  sense ; of  hearing. 

SEC.  XXV.—1 THE  BEAUTIFUL  IN 
SOUNDS. 

In  this  sense  we  find  an  equal  aptitude  to 
be  affected  in  a soft  and  delicate  manner; 
and  how  far  sweet  or  beautiful  sounds  agree 
with  our  descriptions  of  beauty  in  other 
senses,  the  experience  of  every  one  must  de- 
cide. Milton  has  described  this  species  of 
music  in  one  of  his  juvenile  poems  (L’ Alle- 
gro.) I need  not  say  that  Milton  was  per- 
fectly well  versed  in  that  art;  and  that  no 
man  had  a finer  ear,  with  a happier  manner 
of  expressing  the  affections  of  one  sense  by 
metaphors  taken  from  another.  The  descrip- 
tion is  as  follows : 

And  ever  against  eating  cares. 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs ; 

In  notes  with  many  a winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out; 

With  wanton  heed,  and  giddy  cunning, 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running; 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony. 

Let  us  parallel  this  with  the  softness,  the 
winding  surface,  the  unbroken  continuance, 
the  easy  gradation  of  the  beautiful  in  other 
things ; and  all  the  diversities  of  the  several 
senses,  with  all  their  several  affections,  will 
rather  help  to  throw  lights  from  one  another 
to  finish  one  clear,  consistent  idea  of  the 
whole,  than  to  obscure  it  by  their  intricacy 
and  variety. 

To  the  above  mentioned  description  I shall 
add  one  or  two  remarks.  The  first  is;  that 
the  beautiful  in  music  will  not  bear  that  loud- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


119 


ness  and  strength  of  sounds,  which  may  be 
used  to  raise  other  passions ; nor  notes  which 
are  shrill  or  harsh,  or  deep;  it  agrees  best 
with  such  as  are  clear,  even,  smooth,  and 
weak.  The  second  is ; that  great  variety,  and 
quick  transitions  from  one  measure  or  tone  to 
another,  are  contrary  to  the  genius  of  the 
beautiful  in  music.  Such*  transitions  often 
excite  mirth,  or  other  sudden  and  tumultuous 
passions ; but  not  that  sinking,  that  melting, 
that  languor,  which  is  the  characteristical  ef- 
fect of  the  beautiful  as  it  regards  every  sense. 
The  passion  excited  by  beauty  is  in  fact 
nearer  to  a species  of  melancholy,  than  to 
jollity  and  mirth.  I do  not  here  mean  to  con- 
fine music  to  any  one  species  of  notes,  or 
tones,  neither  is  it  an  art  in  which  I can  say 
I have  any  great  skill.  My  sole  design  in  this 
remark  is,  to  settle  a consistent  idea  of  beauty. 
The  infinite  variety  of  the  affections  of  the 
soul  will  suggest  to  a good  head,  and  skilful 
ear,  a variety  of  such  sounds  as  are  fitted  to 
raise  them.  It  can  be  no  prejudice  to  this  to 
clear  and  distinguish  some  few  particulars, 
that  belong  to  the  same  class,  and  are  consist- 
ent with  each  other,  from  the  immense  crowd 
of  different,  and  sometimes  contradictory 
ideas,  that  rank  vulgarly  under  the  standard 
of  beauty.  And  of  these  it  is  my  intention  to 
mark  such  only  of  the  leading  points  as  show 
the  conformity  of  the  sense  of  hearing,  with 
all  the  other  senses  in  the  article  of  their 
pleasures. 

SEC.  XXVI.— TASTE  AND  SMELL. 

This  general  agreement  of  the  senses  is  yet 
more  evident  on  minutely  considering  those 
of  taste  and  smell.  We  metaphorically  apply 

* “ I ne’er  am  merry,  when  I hear  sweet  music. ’’—Shakes- 
peare. 


120 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


the  idea  of  sweetness  to  sights  and  sounds; 
but  as  the  qualities  of  bodies  by  which  they 
are  fitted  to  excite  either  pleasure  or  pain  in 
these  senses,  are  not  so  obvious  as  they  are  in 
the  others,  we  shall  refer  an  explanation  of 
their  analogy,  which  is  a very  close  one,  to 
that  part,  wherein  we  come  to  consider  the 
common  efficient  cause  of  beauty,  as  it  regards 
all  the  senses.  I do  not  think  anything  better 
fitted  to  establish  a clear  and  settled  idea  of 
visual  beauty,  than  this  way  of  examining 
the  similar  pleasures  of  other  senses ; for  one 
part  is  sometimes  clear  in  one  of  the  senses, 
that  is  more  obscure  in  another;  and  where 
there  is  a clear  concurrence  of  all,  we  may 
with  more  certainty  speak  of  any  one  of 
them.  By  this  means,  they  bear  witness  to 
each  other;  nature  is,  as  it  were  scrutinized; 
and  we  report  nothing  of  her  but  what  we  re- 
ceive from  her  own  information. 

SEC.  XXVII.  — THE  SUBLIME  AND  BEAU- 
TIFUL COMPARED. 

On  closing  this  general  view  of  beauty,  it 
naturally  occurs,  that  we  should  compare  it 
with  the  sublime:  and  in  this  comparison 
there  appears  a remarkable  contrast.  For 
sublime  objects  are  vast  in  their  dimensions, 
beautiful  ones  comparatively  small:  beauty 
should  be  smooth  and  polished;  the  great, 
rugged  and  negligent ; beauty  should  shun  the 
right  line,  yet  deviate  from  it  insensibly ; the 
great  in  many  cases  loves  the  right  line ; and 
when  it  deviates,  it  often  makes  a strong  devi- 
ation : beauty  should  not  be  obscure ; the  great 
ought  to  be  dark  and  gloomy : beauty  should 
be  light  and  delicate ; the  great  ought  to  be 
solid,  and  even  massive.  They  are  indeed 
ideas  of  a very  different  nature,  one  being 
founded  on  pain,  the  other  on  pleasure;  and 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


121 


however  they  may  vary  afterwards  from  the 
direct  nature  of  their  causes,  yet  these  causes 
keep  up  an  eternal  distinction  between  them, 
a distinction  never  to  be  forgotten  by  any 
whose  business  it  is  to  affect  the  passions.  In 
the  infinite  variety  of  natural  combinations, 
we  must  expect  to  find  the  qualities  of  things 
the  most  remote  imaginable  from  each  other 
united  in  the  same  object.  We  must  expect 
also  to  find  combinations  of  the  same  kind  in 
the  works  of  art.  But  when  we  consider  the 
power  of  an  object  upon  our  passions,  we 
must  know  that  when  anything  is  intended 
to  affect  the  mind  by  the  force  of  some  pre- 
dominant property,  the  affection  produced  is 
like  to  be  the  more  uniform  and  perfect,  if  all 
the  other  properties  or  qualities  of  the  object 
be  of  the  same  nature,  and  tending  to  the 
same  design  as  the  principal. 

If  black  and  white  blend , soften , and  unite , 

A thousand  ways , are  there  no  black  and  white  ? 

If  the  qualities  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful 
are  sometimes  found  united,  does  this  prove 
that  they  are  the  same;  does  it  prove  that 
they  are  any  way  allied ; does  it  prove  even 
that  they  are  not  opposite  and  contradictory? 
Black  and  white  may  soften,  may  blend ; but 
they  are  not  therefore  the  same.  Nor,  when 
they  are  so  softened  and  blended  with  each 
other,  or  with  different  colors,  is  the  power  of 
black  as  black,  or  of  white  as  white,  so  strong 
as  when  each  stands  uniform  and  distin- 
guished. 


122 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  AND 
BEAUTIFUL. 


PAET  IV.—  SEC.  I. —OP  THE  EFFICIENT 
CAUSE  OF  THE  SUBLIME  AND  BEAU- 
TIFUL. 

When  I say,  I intend  to  inquire  into  the 
efficient  cause  of  sublimity  and  beauty,  I 
would  not  be  understood  to  say,  that  I can 
come  to  the  ultimate  cause.  I do  not  pretend 
that  I shall  ever  be  able  to  explain,  why  cer- 
tain affections  of  the  body  produce  such  a 
distinct  emotion  of  mind,  and  no  other;  or 
why  the  body  is  at  all  affected  by  the  mind, 
or  the  mind  by  the  body.  A little  thought 
will  show  this  to  be  impossible.  But  I con- 
ceive, if  we  can  discover  what  affections  of 
the  mind  produce  certain  emotions  of  the 
body ; and  what  distinct  feelings  and  qualities 
of  body  shall  produce  certain  determinate 
passions  in  the  mind,  and  no  others,  I fancy 
a great  deal  will  be  done ; something  not  un- 
useful towards  a distinct  knowledge  of  our 
passions,  so  far  at  least  as  we  have  them  at 
present  under  our  consideration.  This  is  all, 
I believe,  we  can  do.  If  we  could  advance  a 
step  farther,  difficulties  would  still  remain, 
as  we  should  be  still  equally  distant  from  the 
first  cause.  When  Newton  first  discovered 
the  property  of  attraction,  and  settled  its 
laws,  he  found  it  served  very  well  to  explain 
several  of  the  most  remarkable  phenomena 
in  nature;  but  yet  with  reference  to  the  gen- 
eral system  of  things,  he  could  consider  at- 
traction but  as  an  effect,  whose  cause  at  that 
time  he  did  not  attempt  to  trace.  But  when 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


123 


he  afterwards  began  to  account  for  it  by  a 
subtile  elastic  ether,  this  great  man  (if  in  so" 
great  a man  it  be  not  impious  to  discover  any- 
thing like  a blemish)  seemed  to  have  quitted 
his  usual  cautious  manner  of  philosophizing ; 
since,  perhaps,  allowing  all  that  has  been  ad- 
vanced on  this  subject  to  be  sufficiently 
proved,  I think  it  leaves  us  with  as  many 
difficulties  as  it  found  us.  That  great  chain 
of  causes,  which  links  one  to  another,  even 
to  the  throne  of  God  himself,  can  never  be 
unravelled  by  any  industry  of  ours.  When 
we  go  but  one  step  beyond  the  immediate  sen- 
sible qualities  of  things,  we  go  out  of  our 
depth.  All  we  do  after  is  but  a faint  strug- 
gle, that  shows  we  are  in  an  element  which 
does  not  belong  to  us.  So  that  when  I speak 
of  cause,  and  efficient  cause,  I only  mean  cer- 
tain affections  of  the  mind,  that  cause  certain 
changes  in  the  body ; or  certain  powers  and 
properties  in  bodies,  that  work  a change  in 
the  mind.  As  if  I were  to  explain  the  motion 
of  a body  falling  to  the  ground,  I would  say 
it  was  caused  by  gravity;  and  I would  en- 
deavor to  show  after  what  manner  this  power 
operated,  without  attempting  to  show  why  it 
operated  in  this  manner : or  if  I were  to  ex- 
plain the  effects  of  bodies  striking  one  anoth- 
er by  the  common  laws  of  percussion,  I 
should  not  endeavor  to  explain  how  motion 
itself  is  communicated. 

SEC.  II.— ASSOCIATION. 

It  is  no  small  bar  in  the  way  of  our  inquiry 
into  the  cause  of  our  passions,  that  the  oc- 
casion of  many  of  them  are  given,  and  that 
their  governing  motions  are  communicated 
at  a time  when  we  have  not  capacity  to  re- 
flect on  them ; at  a time  of  which  all  sort  of 
memory  is  worn  out  of  our  minds.  For  be 


124 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


sides  such  things  as  affect  us  in  various  man- 
ners, according  to  their  natural  powers,  there 
are  associations  made  at  that  early  season, 
which  we  find  it  very  hard  afterwards  to  dis- 
tinguish from  natural  effects.  Not  to  men- 
tion the  unaccountable  antipathies  which  we 
find  in  many  persons,  we  all  find  it  impossible 
to  remember  when  a steep  became  more  ter- 
rible than  a plain ; or  fire  or  water  more  ter- 
rible than  a cloud  of  earth ; though  all  these 
are  very  probably  either  conclusions  from 
experience,  or  arising  from  the  premonitions 
of  others ; and  some  of  them  impressed,  in  all 
likelihood,  pretty  late.  But  as  it  must  be  ah 
lowed  that  many  things  affect  us  after  a cer- 
tain manner,  not  by  any  natural  powers  they 
have  for  that  purpose,  but  by  association ; so 
it  would  be  absurd,  on  the  other  hand,  to  say 
that  all  things  affect  us  by  association  only ; 
since  some  things  must  have  been  originally 
and  naturally  agreeable  or  disagreeable,  from 
which  the  others  derive  their  associated  pow- 
ers; and  it  would  be,  I fancy,  to  little  pur- 
pose to  look  for  the  cause  of  our  passions  in 
association,  until  we  fail  of  it  in  the  natural 
properties  of  things. 

SEC.  III.— CAUSE  OF  PAIN  AND  FEAR 

I have  before  observed,  that  whatever  is 
qualified  to  cause  terror,  is  a foundation  ca- 
pable of  the  sublime;  to  which  I add,  that 
not  only  these,  but  many  things  from  which 
we  cannot  probably  apprehend  any  danger, 
have  a similar  effect,  because  they  operate  in 
a,  similar  manner.  I observed  too,  that  what- 
ever produces  pleasure,  positive  and  original 
pleasure,  is  fit  to  have  beauty  engrafted  on 
it.  Therefore,  to  clear  up  the  nature  of  these 
qualities,  it  may  be  necessary  to  explain  the 
nature  of  pain  and  pleasure  on  which  they 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


125 


depend.  A man  who  suffers  under  violent 
bodily  ,pain  (I  suppose  the  most  violent,  be- 
cause the  effect  may  be  the  more  obvious ;)  I 
say  a man  in  great  pain  has  his  teeth  set,  his 
eye-brows  are  violently  contracted,  his  fore- 
head is  wrinkled,  his  eyes  are  dragged  in- 
wards, and  rolled  with  great  vehemence,  his 
hair  stands  on  end,  the  voice  is  forced  out  in 
short  shrieks  and  groans,  and  the  whole  fab- 
ric totters.  Fear  or  terror,  which  is  an  ap- 
prehension of  pain  or  death,  exhibits  exactly 
the  same  effects,  approaching  in  violence  to 
those  just  mentioned,  in  proportion  to  the 
nearness  of  the  cause,  and  the  weakness  of 
the  subject.  This  is  not  only  so  in  the  human 
species;  but  I have  more  than  once  observed 
in  dogs,  under  an  apprehension  of  punish- 
ment, that  they  have  writhed  their  bodies, 
and  yelped,  and  howled,  as  if  they  had  actu- 
ally felt  the  blows.  From  hence  I conclude, 
that  pain  and  fear  act  upon  the  same  parts  of 
the  body,  and  in  the  same  manner,  though 
somewhat  differing  in  degree : that  pain  and 
fear  consist  in  an  unnatural  tension  of  the 
nerves;  that  this  is  sometimes  accompanied 
with  an  unnatural  strength,  which  sometimes 
suddenly  changes  into  an  extraordinary 
weakness;  that  these  effects  often  come  on 
alternately,  and  are  sometimes  mixed  with 
each  other.  This  is  the  nature  of  all  convul- 
sive agitations,  especially  in  weaker  subjects, 
which  are  the  most  liable  to  the  severest  im- 
pressions of  pain  and  fear.  The  only  differ- 
ence between  pain  and  terror  is,  that  things 
which  cause  pain  operate  on  the  mind,  by  the 
intervention  of  the  body;  whereas  things 
that  cause  terror,  generally  affect  the  bodily 
organs  by  the  operation  of  the  mind  suggest- 
ing the  danger;  but  both  agreeing,  either 
primarily,  or  secondarily,  in  producing  a ten- 
sion, contraction,  or  violent  emotion  of  the 


126 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


nerves,  they  agree  likewise  in  everything  else. 
For  it  appears  very  clearly  to  me,  from  this, 
as  well  as  from  many  other  examples,  that 
when  the  body  is  disposed,  by  any  means 
whatsoever,  to  such  emotions  as  it  would  ac- 
quire by  the  means  of  a certain  passion ; it 
will  of  itself  excite  something  very  like  that 
passion  in  the  mind.* 

SEC.  IV.— CONTINUED. 

To  this  purpose  Mr.  Spon,  in  his  Becherches 
d’Antiquite,  gives  us  a curious  story  of  the 
celebrated  physiognomist  Campanella.  This 
man,  it  seems,  had  not  only  made  very  ac- 
curate observations  on  human  faces,  but  was 
very  expert  in  mimicking  such  as  were  any 
way  remarkable.  When  he  had  a mind  to 
penetrate  into  the  inclinations  of  those  he  had 
to  deal  with,  he  composed  his  face,  his  gest- 
ure, and  his  whole  body,  as  nearly  as  he 
could  into  the  exact  similitude  of  the  person 
he  intended  to  examine;  and  then  carefully 
observed  what  turn  of  mind  he  seemed  to  ac- 
quire by  this  change.  So  that,  says  my  au- 
thor, he  was  able  to  enter  into  the  dispositions 
and  thoughts  of  people  as  effectually  as  if  he 
had  been  changed  into  the  very  men.  1 have 
often  observed,  that  on  mimicking  the  looks 
and  gestures  of  angry,  or  placid,  or  fright- 
ened, or  daring  men,  I have  involuntarily 
found  my  mind  turned  to  that  passion,  whose 
appearance  I endeavored  to  imitate;  nay,  I 
am  convinced  it  is  hard  to  avoid  it,  though 
one  strove  to  separate  the  passion  from  its 
correspondent  gestures.  Our  minds  and  bod- 

* I do  not  here  enter  into  the  question  debated  among 
physiologists,  whether  pain  be  the  effect  of  a contraction,  or 
a tension  of  the  nerves.  Either  will  serve  my  purpose ; for 
by  tension,  I mean  no  more  Lthan  a violent  pulling  of  the 
fibres,  which  compose  any  muscle  or  membrane,  in  whatever 
way  this  is  done. 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


127 


ies  are  so  closely  and  intimately  connected, 
that  one  is  incapable  of  pain  or  pleasure  with- 
out the  other.  Campanella,  of  whom  we 
have  been  speaking,  could  so  abstract  his  at- 
tention from  any  sufferings  of  his  body,  that 
he  was  able  to  endure  the  rack  itself  without 
much  pain;  and  in  lesser  pains  everybody 
must  have  observed,  that  when  we  can  em- 
ploy our  attention  on  anything  else,  the  pain 
has  been  for  a time  suspended : on  the  other 
hand,  if  by  any  means  the  body  is  indisposed 
to  perform  such  gestures,  or  to  be  stimulated 
into  such  emotions  as  any  passion  usually 
produces  in  it,  that  passion  itself  never  can 
arise,  though  its  cause  should  be  never  so 
strongly  in  action;  though  it  should  be 
merely  mental,  and  immediately  affecting 
none  of  the  senses.  As  an  opiate,  or  spirituous 
liquors,  shall  suspend  the  operation  of  grief, 
or  fear,  or  anger,  in  spite  of  all  our  efforts  to 
the  contrary;  and  this  by  inducing  in  the 
body  a disposition  contrary  to  that  which  it 
receives  from  these  passions. 

SEC.  V.-IIOW  THE  SUBLIME  IS  PRO- 
DUCED. 

Having  considered  terror  as  producing  an 
unnatural  tension  and  certain  violent  emo- 
tions of  the  nerves;  it  easily  follows,  from 
what  we  have  just  said,  that  whatever  is 
fitted  to  produce  such  a tension  must  be  pro- 
ductive of  a passion  similar  to  terror,  and 
consequently  must  be  a source  of  the  sublime, 
though  it  should  have  no  idea  of  danger  con- 
nected with  it.  So  that  little  remains  towards 
showing  the  cause  of  the  sublime,  but  to  show 
that  the  instances  we  have  given  of  it  in  the 
second  part  relate  to  such  things,  as  are  fitted 
by  nature  to  produce  this  sort  of  tension, 
either  by  the  primary  operation  of  the  mind 


128 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


or  the  body.  With  regard  to  such  things  as 
affect  by  the  associated  idea  of  danger,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  but  that  they  produce  terror, 
and  act  by  some  modification  of  that  passion ; 
and  that  terror,  when  sufficiently  violent, 
raises  the  emotions  of  the  body  just  men- 
tioned, can  as  little  be  doubted.  But  if  the 
sublime  is  built  on  terror,  or  some  passion 
like  it,  which  has  pain  for  its  object,  it  is  pre- 
viously proper  to  inquire  how  any  species  of 
delight  can  be  derived  from  a cause  so  appar- 
ently contrary  to  it.  I say  delight , because  as 
I have  often  remarked,  it  is  very  evidently 
different  in  its  cause,  and  in  its  own  nature, 
from  actual  and  positive  pleasure. 

SEC.  VI.— HOW  PAIN  CAN  BE  A CAUSE 
OF  DELIGHT. 

Providence  has  so  ordered  it,  that  a state  of 
rest  and  inaction,  however  it  may  flatter  our 
indolence,  should  be  productive  of  many  in- 
conveniences ; that  it  should  generate  such  dis- 
orders, as  may  force  us  to  have  recourse  to 
some  labor,  as  a thing  absolutely  requisite 
to  make  us  pass  our  lives  with  tolerable  satis- 
faction ; for  the  nature  of  rest  is  to  suffer  all 
the  parts  of  our  bodies  to  fall  into  a relaxation, 
that  not  only  disables  the  members  from  per- 
forming their  functions,  but  takes  away  the 
vigorous  tone  of  fibre  which  is  requisite  for 
carrying  on  the  natural  and  necessary  secre- 
tions. At  the  same  time,  that  in  this  languid 
inactive  state,  the  nerves  are  more  liable  to 
the  most  horrid  convulsions,  than  when  they 
are  sufficiently  braced  and  strengthened. 
Melancholy,  dejection,  despair,  and  often 
self-murder  is  the  consequence  of  the  gloomy 
view  we  take  of  things  in  this  relaxed  state 
of  body.  The  best  remedy  for  all  these  evils 
is  exercise  or  labor;  and  labor  is  a sur- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


129 


mounting  of  difficulties,  an  exertion  of  the 
contracting  power  of  the  muscles;  and  as 
such  resembles  pain,  which  consists  in  tension 
or  contraction,  in  everything  but  degree. 
Labor  is  not  only  requisite  to  preserve  the 
coarser  organs  in  a state  fit  for  their  func- 
tions ; but  it  is  equally  necessary  to  these  finer 
and  more  delicate  organs,  on  which,  and  by 
which,  the  imagination  and  perhaps  the  other 
mental  powers  act.  Since  it  is  probable,  that 
not  only  the  inferior  parts  of  the  soul,  as  the 
passions  are  called,  but  the  understanding 
itself  makes  use  of  some  fine  corporeal  instru- 
ments in  its  operation ; though  what  they  are, 
and  where  they  are  may  be  somewhat  hard  to 
settle : but  that  it  does  make  use  of  such,  ap- 
pears from  hence ; that  a long  exercise  of  the 
mental  powers  induces  a remarkable  lassitude 
of  the  whole  body ; and  on  the  other  hand  that 
great  bodily  labor,  or  pain,  weakens  and 
sometimes  actually  destroys  the  mental 
faculties.  Now,  as  a due  exercise  is  essential 
to  the  coarse  muscular  parts  of  the  constitu- 
tion, and  that  without  this  rousing  they 
would  become  languid  and  diseased,  the  very 
same  rule  holds  with  regard  to  those  finer 
parts  we  have  mentioned;  to  have  them  in 
proper  order,  they  must  be  shaken  and 
worked  to  a proper  degree. 

SEC.  VII.— EXERCISE  NECESSARY  FOR 
THE  FINER  ORGANS. 

As  common  labor,  which  is  a mode  of  pain, 
is  the  exercise  of  the  grosser,  a mode  of  terror 
is  the  exercise  of  the  finer  parts  of  the  system ; 
and  if  a certain  mode  of  pain  be  of  such  a 
nature  as  to  act  upon  the  eye  or  the  ear,  as 
they  are  the  most  delicate  organs,  the  affec- 
tion approaches  more  nearly  to  that  which 
has  a mental  cause.  In  all  these  cases,  if  the 
9 


130 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


pain  and  terror  are  so  modified  as  not  to  be 
actually  noxious ; if  the  pain  is  not  carried  to 
violence,  and  the  terror  is  not  conversant 
about  the  present  destruction  of  the  person,  as 
these  emotions  clear  the  parts,  whether  fine  or 
gross,  of  a dangerous  and  troublesome  in- 
cumbrance, they  are  capable  of  producing 
delight ; not  pleasure,  but  a sort  of  delightful 
horror,  a sort  of  tranquillity  tinged  with  ter- 
ror ; which,  as  it  belongs  to  self-preservation, 
is  one  of  the  strongest  of  all  the  pas- 
sions. Its  object  is  the  sublime.  Its  highest 
degree  I call  astonishment;  the  subordinate 
degrees  are  awe,  reverence,  and  respect, 
which  by  the  very  etymology  of  the  words, 
show  from  what  source  they  are  derived,  and 
how  they  stand  distinguished  from  positive 
pleasure. 

SEC.  VIII.  — WHY  THINGS  NOT  DAN- 
GEROUS PRODUCE  A PASSION  LIKE 
TERROR. 

A mode  of  terror  or  pain  is  always  the  cause 
of  the  sublime.  For  terror,  or  associated 
danger,  the  foregoing  explanation  is,  I believe, 
sufficient.  It  will  require  something  more 
trouble  to  show,  that  such  examples  as  I have 
given  of  the  sublime  in  the  second  part,  are 
capable  of  producing  a mode  of  pain,  and  of 
being  thus  allied  to  terror,  and  to  be  ac- 
counted for  on  the  same  principles.  And  first 
of  such  objects  as  are  great  in  their  dimen- 
sions. I speak  of  visual  objects. 

SEC.  IX.— WHY  VISUAL  OBJECTS  OF 

GREAT  DIMENSIONS  ARE  SUBLIME. 

Vision  is  performed  by  having  a picture 
formed  by  the  rays  of  light  which  are  re- 
flected from  the  object  painted  in  one  piece, 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


131 


instantaneously,'  on  the  retina,  or  least  nerv- 
ous part  of  the  eye.  Or,  according  to  others, 
there  is  but  one  point  of  any  object  painted  on 
the  eye  in  such  a manner  as  to  be  perceived 
at  once ; but  by  moving  the  eye,  we  gather 
up,  with  great  celerity,  the  several  parts  of 
the  object,  so  as  to  form  one  uniform  piece. 
If  the  former  opinion  be  allowed,  it  will  be 
considered,  that  though  all  the  light  reflected 
from  a large  body  should  strike  the  eye  in 
one  instant;  yet  we  must  suppose  that  the 
body  itself  is  formed  of  a vast  number  of  dis- 
tinct points,  every  one  of  which,  or  the  ray 
from  every  one,  makes  an  impression  on  the 
retina.  So  that,  though  the  image  of  one 
point  should  cause  but  a small  tension  of  this 
membrane,  another,  and  another,  and  another 
stroke,  must  in  their  progress  cause  a very 
great  one,  until  it  arrives  at  last  to  the  highest 
degree ; and  the  whole  capacity  of  the  eye, 
vibrating  in  all  its  parts,  must  approach  near 
to  the  nature  of  what  causes  pain,  and  con- 
sequently must  produce  an  idea  of  the  sublime. 
Again,  if  we  take  it,  that  one  point  only  of  an 
object  is  distinguishable  at  once;  the  matter 
will  amount  nearly  to  the  same  thing,  or  rather 
it  will  make  the  origin  of  the  sublime  from 
greatness  of  dimension  yet  clearer.  For  if 
but  one  point  is  observed  at  once,  the  eye 
must  traverse  the  vast  space  of  such  bodies 
with  great  quickness,  and  consequently  the 
fine  nerves  and  muscles  destined  to  the  mo- 
tion of  that  part  must  be  very  much  strained ; 
and  their  great  sensibility  must  make  them 
highly  affected  by  this  straining.  Besides,  it 
signifies  just  nothing  to  the  effect  produced, 
whether  a body  has  its  parts  connected  and 
makes  its  impression  at  once;  or,  making 
but  one  impression  of  a point  at  a time,  it 
causes  a succession  of  the  same  or  others  so 
quickly  as  to  make  them  seem  united ; as  is 


132 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


evident  from  the  common  effect  of  whirling 
about  a lighted  torch  or  piece  of  wood : which, 
if  done  with  celerity,  seems  a circle  of  fire. 

SEC.  X.— UNITY,  WHY  REQUISITE  TO 
YASTNESS. 

It  may  be  objected  to  this  theory,  that  the 
eye  generally  receives  an  equal  number  of 
rays  at  all  times,  and  that  therefore  a great 
object  cannot  affect  it  by  the  number  of  rays 
more  than  that  variety  of  objects  which  the 
eye  must  always  discern  whilst  it  remains 
open.  But  to  this  I answer,  that  admitting 
an  equal  number  of  rays,  or  an  equal  quan- 
tity of  luminous  particles  to  strike  the  eye  at 
all  times,  yet  if  these  rays  frequently  vary 
their  nature,  now  to  blue,  now  to  red,  and  so 
on,  or  their  manner  of  termination,  as  to  a 
number  of  petty  squares,  triangles,  or  the 
like,  at  every  change,  whether  of  color  or 
shape,  the  organ  has  a sort  of  relaxation  or 
rest ; but  this  relaxation  and  labor  so  often 
interrupted,  is  by  no  means  productive  of 
ease ; neither  has  it  the  effect  of  vigorous  and 
uniform  labor.  Whoever  has  remarked  the 
different  effects  of  some  strong  exercise,  and 
some  little  piddling  action,  will  understand 
why  a teasing  fretful  employment,  which  at 
once  wearies  and  weakens  the  body,  should 
have  nothing  great ; these  sorts  of  impulses, 
which  are  rather  teasing  than  painful,  by 
continually  and  suddenly  altering  their  tenor 
and  direction,  prevent  that  full  tension,  that 
species  of  uniform  labor,  which  is  allied  to 
strong  pain,  and  causes  the  sublime.  The 
sum  total  of  things  of  various  kinds,  though 
it  should  equal  the  number  of  the  uniform 
parts  composing  some  one  entire  object,  is 
not  equal  in  its  effect  upon  the  organs  of  our 
bodies.  Besides  the  one  already  assigned, 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


133 


there  is  another  very  strong  reason  for  the 
difference.  The  mind  in  reality  hardly  ever 
can  attend  diligently  to  more  than  one  thing 
at  a time ; if  this  thing  be  little,  the  effect  is 
little,  and  a number  of  other  little  objects 
cannot  engage  the  attention;  the  mind  is 
bounded  by  the  bounds  of  the  object;  and 
what  is  not  attended  to,  and  what  does  not 
exist,  are  much  the  same  in  the  effect;  but 
the  eye  or  the  mind  (for  in  this  case  there  is 
no  difference)  in  great  uniform  objects  does 
not  readily  arrive  at  their  bounds : it  has  no 
rest,  whilst  it  contemplates  them ; the  image 
is  much  the  same  everywhere . So  that  every- 
thing great  by  its  quantity  must  necessarily 
be  one,  simple  and  entire. 

SEC.  XI.— THE  ARTIFICIAL  INFINITE. 

We  have  observed,  that  a species  of  great- 
ness arises  from  the  artificial  infinite;  and 
that  this  infinite  consists  in  an  uniform  suc- 
cession of  great  parts : we  observed  too,  that 
the  same  uniform  succession  had  a like  power 
in  sounds.  But  because  the  effects  of  many 
things  are  clearer  in  one  of  the  senses  than  in 
another,  and  that  all  the  senses  bear  analogy 
to,  and  illustrate  one  another,  I shall  begin 
with  this  power  in  sounds,  as  the  cause  of  the 
sublimity  from  succession  is  rather  more  ob- 
vious in  the  sense  of  hearing.  And  I shall 
here,  once  for  all,  observe,  that  an  investiga- 
tion of  the  natural  and  mechanical  causes  of 
our  passions,  besides  the  curiosity  of  the  sub- 
ject, gives,  if  they  are  discovered,  a double 
strength  and  lustre  to  any  rules  we  deliver 
on  such  matters.  When  the  ear  receives  any 
simple  sound,  it  is  struck  by  a single  pulse  of 
the  air,  which  makes  the  ear-drum  and  the 
other  membranous  parts  vibrate  according  to 
the  nature  and  species  of  the  stroke.  If  the 


134 


01 V THE  SUBLIME 


stroke  be  strong,  the  organ  of  hearing  suffers 
a considerable  degree  of  tension.  If  the  stroke 
be  repeated  pretty  soon  after,  the  repetition 
causes  an  expectation  of  another  stroke.  And 
it  must  be  observed,  that  expectation  itself 
causes  a tension.  This  is  apparent  in  many 
animals,  who,  when  they  prepare  for  hearing 
any  sound,  rouse  themselves,  and  prick  up 
their  ears:  so  that  here  the  effect  of  the 
sounds  is  considerably  augmented  by  a new 
auxiliary,  the  expectation.  But  though  after 
a number  of  strokes,  we  expect  still  more,  not 
being  able  to  ascertain  the  exact  time  of  their 
arrival,  when  they  arrive  they  produce  a sort 
of  surprise  which  increases  this  tension  yet 
further.  For  I have  observed,  that  when  at 
any  time  I have  waited  very  earnestly  for 
some  sound,  that  returned  at  intervals,  (as 
the  successive  firing  of  cannon)  though  I fully 
expected  the  return  of  the  sound,  when  it  came 
it  always  made  me  start  a little ; the  ear-drum 
suffered  a convulsion,  and  the  whole  body 
consented  with  it.  The  tension  of  the  part 
thus  increasing  at  every  blow,  by  the  united 
forces  of  the  stroke  itself,  the  expectation, 
and  the  surprise,  it  is  worked  up  to  such  a 
pitch  as  to  be  capable  of  the  sublime;  it  is 
brought  just  to  the  verge  of  pain.  Even  when 
the  cause  has  ceased,  the  organs  of  hearing 
being  often  successively  struck  in  a similar 
manner,  continue  to  vibrate  in  that  manner 
for  some  time  longer;  this  is  an  additional 
help  to  the  greatness  of  the  effect. 

SEC.  XII.— THE  VIBRATIONS  MUST  BE 
SIMILAR. 

But  if  the  vibration  be  not  similar  at  every 
impression,  it  can  never  be  carried  beyond 
the  number  of  actual  impressions ; for  move 
anybody  as  a pendulum,  in  one  way,  and  it 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


135 


will  continue  to  oscillate  in  an  arc  of  the 
same  circle,  until  the  known  causes  make  it 
rest ; but  if  after  first  putting  it  in  motion  in 
one  direction,  you  push  it  into  another,  it  can 
never  reassume  the  first  direction ; because  it 
can  never  move  itself,  and  consequently  it 
can  have  but  the  effect  of  that  last  motion ; 
whereas,  if  in  the  same  direction  you  act 
upon  it  several  times,  it  will  describe  a 
greater  arc,  and  move  a longer  time. 

SEC.  XIII.— THE  EFFECT  OF  SUCCESSION 
IN  VISUAL  OBJECTS  EXPLAINED. 

If  we  can  comprehend  clearly  how  things 
operate  upon  one  of  our  senses,  there  can  be 
very  little  difficulty  in  conceiving  in  what 
manner  they  affect  the  rest.  To  say  a great 
deal  therefore  upon  the  corresponding  affec- 
tions of  every  sense,  would  tend  rather  to 
fatigue  us  by  an  useless  repetition,  than  to 
throw  any  new  light  upon  the  subject,  by  that 
ample  and  diffuse  manner  of  treating  it ; but 
as  in  this  discourse  we  chiefly  attach  our- 
selves to  the  sublime,  as  it  affects  the  eye,  we 
shall  consider  particularly  why  a successive 
disposition  of  uniform  parts  in  the  same  right 
line  should  be  sublime,  and  upon  what  prin- 
ciple this  disposition  is  enabled  to  make  a 
comparatively  small  quantity  of  matter  pro- 
duce a grander  effect,  than  a much  larger 
quantity  disposed  in  another  manner.  To 
avoid  the  perplexity  of  general  notions;  let 
us  set  before  our  eyes  a colonnade,  of  uniform 
pillars  planted  in  a right  line ; let  us  take  our 
stand  in  such  a manner,  that  the  eye  may 
shoot  along  this  colonnade,  for  it  has  its  best 
effect  in  this  view.  In  our  present  situation 
it  is  plain,  that  the  rays  from  the  first  round 
pillar  will  cause  in  the  eye  a vibration  of  that 
species;  an  image  of  the  pillar  itself.  The 


136 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


pillar  immediately  succeeding  increases  it; 
that  which  follows  renews  and  enforces  the 
impression ; each  in  its  order  as  it  succeeds, 
repeats  impulse  after  impulse,  and  stroke  aft- 
er stroke,  until  the  eye,  long  exercised  in  one 
particular  way,  cannot  lose  that  object  imme- 
diately; and  being  violently  roused  by  this 
continued  agitation,  it  presents  the  mind  with 
a grand  or  sublime  conception.  But  instead 
of  viewing  a rank  of  uniform  pillars ; let  us 
suppose  that  they  succeed  each  other,  a round 
and  a square  one  alternately.  In  this  case  the 
vibration  caused  by  the  first  round  pillar  per- 
ishes as  soon  as  it  is  formed ; and  one  of  quite 
another  sort  (the  square)  directly  occupies  its 
place ; which  however  it  resigns  as  quickly  to 
the  round  one ; and  thus  the  eye  proceeds,  al- 
ternately, taking  up  one  image,  and  laying 
down  another,  as  long  as  the  building  contin- 
ues. From  whence  it  is  obvious,  that  at  the 
last  pillar,  the  impression  is  as  far  from  con- 
tinuing as  it  was  at  the  very  first ; because  in 
fact,  the  sensory  can  receive  no  distinct  im- 
pression but  from  the  last ; and  it  can  never 
of  itself  reassume  a dissimilar  impression: 
besides  every  variation  of  the  object  is  a rest 
and  relaxation  to  the  organs  of  sight;  and 
these  reliefs  prevent  that  powerful  emotion  so 
necessary  to  produce  the  sublime.  To  pro- 
duce therefore  a perfect  grandeur  in  such 
things  as  we  have  been  mentioning,  there 
should  be  a perfect  simplicity,  an  absolute 
uniformity  in  disposition,  shape,  and  coloring. 
Upon  this  principle  of  succession  and  uniform- 
ity it  may  be  asked,  why  a long  bare  wall 
should  not  be  a more  sublime  object  than  a 
colonnade;  since  the  succession  is  no  way 
interrupted;  since  the  eye  meets  no  check; 
since  nothing  more  uniform  can  be  conceived? 
A long  bare  wall  is  certainly  not  so  grand  an 
object  as  a colonnade  of  the  same  length  and 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


137 


height.  It  is  not  altogether  difficult  to  ac- 
count for  this  difference.  When  we  look  at  a 
naked  wall,  from  the  evenness  of  the  object, 
the  eye  runs  along  its  whole  space,  and  ar- 
rives quickly  at  its  termination ; the  eye  meets 
nothing  which  may  interrupt  its  progress ; but 
then  it  meets  nothing  which  may  detain  it  a 
proper  time  to  produce  a very  great  and  last- 
ing effect.  The  view  of  a bare  wall,  if  it  be  of 
a great  height  and  length,  is  undoubtedly 
grand:  but  this  is  only  one  idea,  and  not  a 
repetition  of  similar  ideas:  it  is  therefore 
great,  not  so  much  upon  the  principle  of  in- 
finity\ as  upon  that  of  vastness.  But  we  are 
not  so  powerfully  affected  with  any  one  im- 
pulse, unless  it  be  one  of  a prodigious  force 
indeed,  as  we  are  with  a succession  of  similar 
impulses;  because  the  nerves  of  the  sensory 
do  not  (if  I may  use  the  expression)  acquire 
a habit  of  repeating  the  same  feeling  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  continue  it  longer  than  its  cause 
is  in  action ; besides  all  the  effects  which  I 
have  attributed  to  expectation  and  surprise  in 
Sec.  11,  can  have  no  place  in  a bare  wall. 

SEC.  XIV.—  LOCKE’S  OPINION  CONCERN- 
ING- DARKNESS  CONSIDERED. 

It  is  Mr.  Locke’s  opinion,  that  darkness  is  not 
naturally  an  idea  of  terror : and  that  though 
an  excessive  light  is  painful  to  the  sense,  that 
the  greatest  excess  of  darkness  is  no  ways 
troublesome.  He  observes  indeed  in  another 
place,  that  a nurse  or  an  old  woman  having 
once  associated  the  ideas  of  ghosts  and  gob- 
lins with  that  of  darkness,  night  ever  after  be- 
comes painful  and  horrible  to  the  imagination. 
The  authority  of  this  great  man  is  doubtless 
as  great  as  that  of  any  man  can  be,  and  it 
seems  to  stand  in  the  way  of  our  general  prin- 
ciple. We  have  considered  darkness  as  a 


138 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


cause  of  the  sublime ; and  we  have  all  along 
considered  the  sublime  as  depending  on  some 
modification  of  pain  or  terror:  so  that  if 
darkness  be  no  way  painful  or  terrible  to  any, 
who  have  not  had  their  minds  early  tainted 
with  superstitions,  it  can  be  no  source  of  the 
sublime  to  them.  But  with  all  deference  to 
such  an  authority,  it  seems  to  me,  that  an 
association  of  a more  general  nature,  an  asso- 
ciation which  takes  in  all  mankind,  may 
make  darkness  terrible ; for  in  utter  darkness 
it  is  impossible  to  know  in  what  degree  of 
safety  we  stand ; we  are  ignorant  of  the  ob- 
jects that  surround  us;  we  may  every  mo- 
ment strike  against  some  dangerous  obstruc- 
tion ; we  may  fall  down  a precipice  the  first 
step  we  take ; and  if  an  enemy  approach,  we 
know  not  in  what  quarter  to  defend  ourselves ; 
in  such  a case  strength  is  no  sure  protection ; 
wisdom  can  only  act  by  guess ; the  boldest  are 
staggered,  and  he  who  would  pray  for  noth- 
ing else  towards  his  defence  is  forced  to  pray 
for  light. 

As  to  the  association  of  ghosts  and  goblins ; 
surely  it  is  more  natural  to  think,  that  dark- 
ness, being  originally  an  idea  of  terror,  was 
chosen  as  a fit  scene  for  such  terrible  repre- 
sentations, than  that  such  representations 
have  made  darkness  terrible.  The  mind  of  man 
very  easily  slides  into  an  error  of  the  former 
sort ; but  it  is  very  hard  to  imagine,  that  the 
effect  of  an  idea  so  universally  terrible  in  all 
times,  and  in  all  countries,  as  darkness,  could 
possibly  have  been  owing  to  a set  of  idle 
stories,  or  to  any  cause  of  a nature  so  trivial, 
and  of  an  operation  so  precarious. 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


139 


SEC.  XV.— DARKNESS  TERRIBLE  IN  ITS 
OWN  NATURE. 

Perhaps  it  may  appear  on  inquiry,  that 
blackness  and  darkness  are  in  some  degree 
painful  by  their  natural  operation,  independ- 
ent of  any  associations  whatsoever.  I must 
observe,  that  the  ideas  of  darkness  and  black- 
ness are  much  the  same;  and  they  differ 
only  in  this,  that  blackness  is  a more  confined 
idea.  Mr.  Cheselden  has  given  us  a very  curi- 
ous story  of  a boy,  who  had  been  born  blind, 
and  continued  so  until  he  was  thirteen  or  four- 
teen years  old ; he  was  then  couched  for  a 
cataract,  by  which  operation  he  received  his 
sight.  Among  many  remarkable  particulars 
that  attended  his  first  perceptions  and  judg- 
ments on  visual  objects,  Cheselden  tells  us, 
that  the  first  time  the  boy  saw  a black  object* 
it  gave  him  great  uneasiness ; and  that  some 
time  after,  upon  accidentally  seeing  a negro 
woman,  he  was  struck  with  great  horror  at  the 
sight.  The  horror,  in  this  case,  can  scarcely 
be  supposed  to  arise  from  any  association. 
The  boy  appears  by  the  account  to  have  been 
particularly  observing  and  sensible  for  one  of 
his  age;  and  therefore  it  is  probable,  if  the 
great  uneasiness  he  felt  at  the  first  sight  of 
black  had  arisen  from  its  connection  with  any 
other  disagreeable  ideas,  he  would  have  ob- 
served and  mentioned  it.  For  an  idea,  disa- 
greeable only  by  association,  has  the  cause  of 
its  ill  effect  on  the  passions  evident  enough  at 
the  first  impression ; in  ordinary  cases  it  is 
indeed  frequently  lost;  but  this  is,  because 
the  original  association  was  made  very  early, 
and  the  consequent  impression  repeated  often. 
In  our  instance,  there  was  no  time  for  such  a 
habit;  and  there  is  no  reason  to  think  that 
the  ill  effects  of  black  on  his  imagination  were 


140 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


more  owing  to  its  connection  with  any  disa- 
greeable ideas,  than  that  the  good  effects  of 
more  cheerful  colors  were  derived  from  their 
connection  with  pleasing  ones.  They  had 
both  probably  their  effects  from  their  natural 
operation. 

SEC.  XVI.— WHY  DARKNESS  IS  TERRI- 
BLE. 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  examine  how  dark- 
ness can  operate  in  such  a manner  as  to  cause 
pain.  It  is  observable,  that  still  as  we  recede 
from  the  light,  nature  has  so  contrived  it 
that  the  pupil  is  enlarged  by  the  retiring  of 
the  iris,  in  proportion  to  our  recess.  Now, 
instead  of  declining  from  it  but  a little,  sup- 
pose that  we  withdraw  entirely  from  the 
light ; it  is  reasonable  to  think,  that  the  con- 
traction of  the  radial  fibres  of  the  iris  is  pro- 
portionably  greater ; and  that  this  part  may 
by  great  darkness  come  to  be  so  contracted, 
as  to  strain  the  nerves  that  compose  it  beyond 
their  natural  tone ; and  by  this  means  to  pro- 
duce a painful  sensation.  Such  a tension  it 
seems  there  certainly  is,  whilst  we  are  in- 
volved in  darkness ; for  in  such  a state  whilst 
the  eye  remains  open,  there  is  a continual 
nisus  to  receive  light ; this  is  manifest  from 
the  flashes  and  luminous  appearances  which 
often  seem  in  these  circumstances  to  play 
before  it ; and  which  can  be  nothing  but  the 
effect  of  spasms,  produced  by  its  own  efforts 
in  pursuit  of  its  object ; several  other  strong 
impulses  will  produce  the  idea  of  light  in  the 
eye,  besides  the  substance  of  light  itself, 
as  we  experience  on  many  occasions.  Some 
who  allow  darkness  to  be  a cause  of  the 
sublime,  would  infer,  from  a dilation  of  the 
pupil,  that  a relaxation  may  be  productive  of 
the  sublime,  as  well  as  convulsion ; but  they 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


141 


do  not  I believe  consider  that  although  the 
circular  ring  of  the  iris  be  in  some  sense  a 
sphincter,  which  may  possibly  be  dilated  by 
a simple  relaxation,  yet  in  one  respect  it  dif- 
fers from  most  of  the  other  sphincters  of  the 
body,  that  it  is  furnished  with  antagonist 
muscles,  which  are  the  radial  fibres  of  the 
iris : no  sooner  does  the  circular  muscle  begin 
to  relax,  than  these  fibres,  wanting  their 
counterpoise,  are  forcibly  drawn  back,  and 
open  the  pupil  to  a considerable  wideness. 
But  though  we  were  not  apprized  of  this,  I 
believe  any  one  will  find,  if  he  opens  his  eyes 
and  makes  an  effort  to  see  in  a dark  place, 
that  a very  perceivable  pain  ensues.  And  I 
have  heard  some  ladies  remark,  that  after 
having  worked  a long  time  upon  a ground  of 
black,  their  eyes  were  so  pained  and  weak- 
ened, they  could  hardly  see.  It  may  perhaps 
be  objected  to  this  theory  of  the  mechanical 
effect  of  darkness  that  the  ill  effects  of  dark- 
ness or  blackness  seem  rather  mental  than 
corporeal : and  I own  it  is  true,  that  they  do 
so ; and  so  do  all  those  that  depend  on  the 
affections  of  the  finer  parts  of  our  system. 
The  ill  effects  of  bad  weather  appear  often 
no  otherwise,  than  in  a melancholy  and  de- 
jection of  spirits;  though  without  doubt,  in 
this  case,  the  bodily  organs  suffer  first,  and 
the  mind  through  these  organs. 

SEC.  XVII.— THE  EFFECTS  OF  BLACK- 
NESS. 

Blackness  is  but  a partial  darkness;  and 
therefore  it  derives  some  of  its  powers  from 
being  mixed  and  surrounded  with  colored 
bodies.  In  its  own  nature,  it  cannot  be  con- 
sidered as  a color.  Black  bodies,  reflecting 
none,  or  but  a few  rays,  with  regard  to  sight, 
are  but  as  so  many  vacant  spaces  dispersed 


142 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


among  the  objects  we  view.  When  the  eye 
lights  on  one  of  these  vacuities,  after  having 
been  kept  in  some  degree  of  tension  by  the 
play  of  the  adjacent  colors  upon  it,  it  sud- 
denly falls  into  a relaxation ; out  of  which  it 
as  suddenly  recovers  by  a convulsive  spring. 
To  illustrate  this ; let  us  consider,  that  when 
we  intend  to  sit  on  a chair,  and  find  it  much 
lower  than  we  expected,  the  shock  is  very 
violent;  much  more  violent  than  could  be 
thought  from  so  slight  a fall  as  the  difference 
between  one  chair  and  another  can  possibly 
make.  If,  after  descending  a flight  of  stairs, 
we  attempt  inadvertently  to  take  another 
step  in  the  manner  of  the  former  ones,  the 
shock  is  extremely  rude  and  disagreeable; 
and  by  no  art  can  we  cause  such  a shock  by 
the  same  means  when  we  expect  and  prepare 
for  it.  When  I say  that  this  is  owing  to  hav- 
ing the  change  made  contrary  to  expecta- 
tion; I do  not  mean  solely,  when  the  mind 
expects.  I mean  likewise,  that  when  an 
order  of  sense  is  for  some  time  affected  in 
some  one  manner,  if  it  be  suddenly  affected 
otherwise,  there  ensues  a convulsive  motion ; 
such  a convulsion  as  is  caused  when  any- 
thing happens  against  the  expectance  of  the 
mind.  And  though  it  may  appear  strange 
that  such  a change  as  produces  a relaxation, 
should  immediately  produce  a sudden  con- 
vulsion ; it  is  yet  most  certainly  so,  and  so  in 
all  the  senses.  Every  one  knows  that  sleep 
is  a relaxation ; and  that  silence,  where  noth- 
ing keeps  the  organs  of  hearing  in  action, 
is  in  general  fittest  to  bring  on  this  relaxa- 
tion ; yet  when  a sort  of  murmuring  sounds 
dispose  a man  to  sleep,  let  these  sounds 
cease  suddenly,  and  the  person  immediately 
awakes ; that  is,  the  parts  are  braced  up  sud- 
denly, and  he  awakes.  This  I have  often  ex- 
perienced myself,  and  I have  heard  the  same 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


143 


from  observing  persons.  In  like  manner, 
if  a person  in  broad  daylight  were  falling 
asleep,  to  introduce  a sudden  darkness  would 
prevent  his  sleep  for  that  time,  though  silence 
and  darkness  in  themselves,  and  not  sud- 
denly introduced,  are  very  favorable  to  it. 
This  I knew  only  by  conjecture  on  the  an- 
alogy of  the  senses  when  I first  digested 
these  observations;  but  I have  since  experi- 
enced it.  And  I have  often  experienced,  and 
so  have  a thousand  others,  that  on  the  first 
inclining  toward  sleep,  we  have  been  sud- 
denly awakened  by  a most  violent  start ; and 
that  this  start  was  generally  preceded  by  a 
sort  of  dream  of  our  falling  down  a precipice : 
whence  does  this  strange  motion  arise,  but 
from  the  too  sudden  relaxation  of  the  body, 
which  by  some  mechanism  in  nature  restores 
itself  by  as  quick  and  vigorous  an  exertion  of 
the  contracting  power  of  the  muscles!  The 
dream  itself  is  caused  by  this  relaxation : and 
it  is  of  too  uniform  a nature  to  be  attributed 
to  any  other  cause.  The  parts  relax  too  sud- 
denly, which  is  in  the  nature  of  falling ; and 
this  accident  of  the  body  induces  this  image 
in  the  mind.  When  we  are  in  a confirmed 
state  of  health  and  vigor,  as  all  changes  are 
then  less  sudden,  and  less  on  the  extreme, 
we  can  seldom  complain  of  this  disagreeable 
sensation. 

SEC.  XVIII.— THE  EFFECTS  OF  BLACK- 
NESS MODERATED. 

Though  the  effects  of  black  be  painful 
originally,  we  must  not  think  they  always 
continue  so.  Custom  reconciles  us  to  every- 
thing. After  we  have  been  used  to  the  sight 
of  black  objects,  the  terror  abates,  and  the 
smoothness  or  glossiness  or  some  agreeable 
accident  of  bodies  so  colored,  softens  in  some 


144 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


measure  the  horror  and  sternness  of  their 
original  nature  ; yet  the  nature  of  their  orig- 
inal impression  still  continues.  Black  will 
always  have  something  melancholy  in  it,  be- 
cause the  sensory  will  always  find  the  change 
to  it  from  other  colors  too  violent;  or  if  it 
occupy  the  whole  compass  of  the  sight,  it 
will  then  be  darkness ; and  what  was  said  of 
darkness  will  be  applicable  here.  I do  not 
purpose  to  go  into  all  that  might  be  said  to 
illustrate  this  theory  of  the  effects  of  light 
and  darkness;  neither  will  I' examine  all  the 
different  effects  produced  by  the  various 
modifications  and  mixtures  of  these  two 
causes.  If  the  foregoing  observations  have 
any  foundation  in  nature,  I conceive  them 
very  sufficient  to  account  for  all  the  phenom- 
ena that  can  arise  from  all  the  combinations 
of  black  with  other  colors.  To  enter  into 
every  particular,  or  to  answer  every  objec- 
tion, would  be  an  endless  labor.  We  have 
only  followed  the  most  leading  roads;  and 
we  shall  observe  the  same  conduct  in  our  in- 
quiry into  the  cause  of  beauty. 

SEC.  XIX.— THE  PHYSICAL  CAUSE  OF 
LOVE. 

W7hen  we  have  before  us  such  objects  as 
excite  love  and  complacency;  the  body  is 
affected,  so  far  as  I could  observe,  much  in 
the  following  manner:  The  head  reclines 
something  on  one  side ; the  eyelids  are  more 
closed  than  usual,  and  the  eyes  roll  gently 
with  an  inclination  to  the  object ; the  mouth 
is  a little  opened,  and  the  breath  drawn 
slowly,  with  now  and  then  a low  sigh;  the 
whole  body  is  composed,  and  the  hands  fall 
idly  to  the  sides.  All  this  is  accompanied 
with  an  inward  sense  of  melting  and  languor. 
These  appearances  are  always  proportioned 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


145 


to  the  degree  of  beauty  in  the  object,  and  of 
sensibility  in  the  observer.  And  this  grada- 
tion from  the  highest  pitch  of  beauty  and 
sensibility,  even  to  the  lowest  of  mediocrity 
and  indifference,  and  their  correspondent 
effects,  ought  to  be  kept  in  view,  else  this 
description  will  seem  exaggerated,  which  it 
certainly  is  not.  But  from  this  description 
it  is  almost  impossible  not  to  conclude,  that 
beauty  acts  by  relaxing  the  solids  of  the  whole 
system.  There  are  all  the  appearances  of 
such  a relaxation;  and  a relaxation  some- 
what below  the  natural  tone  seems  to  me  to 
be  the  cause  of  all  positive  pleasure.  Who  is 
a stranger  to  that  manner  of  expression  so 
common  in  all  times  and  in  all  countries,  of 
being  softened,  relaxed,  enervated,  dissolved, 
melted  away  by  pleasure  ? The  universal 
voice  of  mankind  faithful  to  their  feelings, 
concurs  in  affirming  this  uniform  and  gen- 
eral effect : and  although  some  odd  and  par- 
ticular instance  may  perhaps  be  found, 
wherein  there  appears  a considerable  degree 
of  positive  pleasure,  without  all  the  charac- 
ters of  relaxation,  we  must  not  therefore  re- 
ject the  conclusion  we  had  drawn  from  a 
concurrence  of  many  experiments;  but  we 
must  still  retain  it,  subjoining  the  exceptions 
which  may  occur  according  to  the  judicious 
rule  laid  down  by  Sir  Isaac  Newton  in  the 
third  book  of  his  Optics.  Our  position  will,  I 
conceive,  appear  confirmed  beyond  any  rea- 
sonable doubt,  if  we  can  show  that  such 
things  as  we  have  already  observed  to  be  the 
genuine  constituents  of  beauty,  have  each 
of  them,  separately  taken,  a natural  tendency 
to  relax  the  fibres.  And  if  it  must  be  allowed 
us,  that  the  appearance  of  the  human  body, 
when  all  these  constituents  are  united  to- 
gether before  the  sensory,  further  favors  this 
opinion,  we  may  venture.  I believe,  to  con- 
10 


146 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


elude,  that  the  passion  called  love  is  pro- 
duced by  this  relaxation.  By  the  same  method 
of  reasoning  which  we  have  used  in  the  in- 
quiry into  the  causes  of  the  sublime,  we  may 
likewise  conclude,  that  as  a beautiful  object 
presented  to  the  sense,  by  causing  a relaxa- 
tion of  the  body,  produces  the  passion  of  love 
in  the  mind ; so  if  by  any  means  the  passion 
should  first  have  its  origin  in  the  mind,  a re- 
laxation of  the  outward  organs  will  as  cer- 
tainly ensue  in  a degree  proportioned  to  the 
cause. 

SEC.  XX.— WHY  SMOOTHNESS  IS  BEAU- 
TIFUL. 

It  is  to  explain  the  true  cause  of  visual 
beauty,  that  I call  in  the  assistance  of  the 
other  senses.  If  it  appears  that  smoothness 
is  a principal  cause  of  pleasure  to  the  touch, 
taste,  smell,  and  hearing,  it  will  be  easily 
admitted  a constituent  of  visual  beauty;  es- 
pecially as  we  have  before  shown,  that  this 
quality  is  found  almost  without  exception  in 
all  bodies  that  are  by  general  consent  held 
beautiful.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  bodies 
which  are  rough  and  angular,  rouse  and  vel- 
licate  the  organs  of  feeling,  causing  a sense 
of  pain,  which  consists  in  the  violent  tension 
or  contraction  of  the  muscular  fibres.  On  the 
contrary,  the  application  of  smooth  bodies 
relaxes ; gentle  stroking  with  a smooth  hand 
allays  violent  pains  and  cramps,  and  relaxes 
the  suffering  parts  from  their  unnatural  ten- 
sion ; and  it  has  therefore  very  often  no  mean 
effect  in  removing  swellings  and  obstruc- 
tions. The  sense  of  feeling  is  highly  grati- 
fied with  smooth  bodies.  A bed  smoothly 
laid,  and  soft,  that  is,  where  the  resistance  is 
every  way  inconsiderable,  is  a great  luxury, 
disposing  to  an  universal  relaxation,  and  in- 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


147 


ducing  beyond  anything  else,  that  species  of 
it  called  sleep. 

SEC.  XXI.— SWEETNESS,  ITS  NATURE. 

Nor  is  it  only  in  the  touch,  that  smooth 
bodies  cause  positive  pleasure  by  relaxation. 
In  the  smell  and  taste,  we  find  all  things 
agreeable  to  them,  and  which  are  commonly 
called  sweet,  to  be  of  a smooth  nature,  and 
that  they  all  evidently  tend  to  relax  their  re- 
spective sensories.  Let  us  first  consider  the 
taste.  Since  it  is  most  easy  to  inquire  into 
the  property  of  liquids,  and  since  all  things 
seem  to  want  a fluid  vehicle  to  make  them 
tasted  at  all,  I intend  rather  to  consider  the 
liquid  than  the  solid  parts  of  our  food.  The 
vehicles  of  all  tastes  are  water  and  oil.  And 
what  determines  the  taste  is  some  salt,  which 
affects  variously  according  to  its  nature,  or 
its  manner  of  being  combined  with  other 
things.  Water  and  oil,  simply  considered,  are 
capable  of  giving  some  pleasure  to  the  taste. 
Water,  when  simple,  is  insipid,  inodorous, 
colorless,  and  smooth  ; it  is  found,  when  not 
cold , to  be  a great  resolver  of  spasms,  and 
lubricator  of  the  fibres : this  power  it  probably 
owes  to  its  smoothness.  For  as  its  fluidity 
depends,  according  to  the  most  general  opin- 
ion, on  the  roundness,  smoothness,  and  weak 
cohesion  of  the  component  parts  of  anybody ; 
and  as  water  acts  merely  as  a simple  fluid ; it 
follows,  that  the  cause  of  its  fluidity  is  like- 
wise the  cause  of  its  relaxing  quality ; namely, 
the  smoothness  and  slippery  texture  of  its 
parts.  The  other  fluid  vehicle  of  tastes  is  oil. 
This  too,  when  simple,  is  insipid,  inodorous, 
colorless,  and  smooth  to  the  touch  and  taste. 
It  is  smoother  than  water,  and  in  many  cases 
yet  more  relaxing.  Oil  is  in  some  degree 
pleasant  to  the  eye,  the  touch,  and  the  taste, 


148 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


insipid  as  it  is.  Water  is  not  so  grateful; 
which  I do  not  know  on  what  principle  to  ac- 
count for,  other  than  that  water  is  not  so  soft 
and  smooth.  Suppose  that  to  this  oil  or  water 
were  added  a certain  quantity  of  a specific 
salt,  which  had  a power  of  putting  the  ner- 
vous papillae  of  the  tongue  into  a gentle  vibra- 
tory motion ; as  suppose  sugar  dissolved  in  it. 
The  smoothness  of  the  oil,  and  the  vibratory 
power  of  the  salt,  cause  the  sense  we  call 
sweetness.  In  all  sweet  bodies,  sugar,  or  a 
substance  very  little  different  from  sugar,  is 
constantly  found;  every  species  of  salt,  ex- 
amined by  the  microscope,  has  its  own  dis- 
tinct, regular,  invariable  form.  That  of  nitre 
is  a pointed  oblong;  that  of  sea-salt  an  exact 
cube ; that  of  sugar  a perfect  globe.  If  you 
have  tried  how  smooth  globular  bodies,  as 
the  marbles  with  which  boys  amuse  them- 
selves, have  affected  the  touch  when  they 
are  rolled  backward  and  forward  and  over 
one  another,  you  will  easily  conceive  how 
sweetness,  which  consists  in  a salt  of  such 
nature,  affects  the  taste : for  a single  globe, 
(though  somewhat  pleasant  to  the  feeling)  yet 
by  the  regularity  of  its  form,  and  the  somewhat 
too  sudden  deviation  of  its  parts  from  a right 
line  is  nothing  near  so  pleasant  to  the  touch  as 
several  globes,  where  the  hand  gently  rises  to 
one  and  falls  to  another : and  this  pleasure  is 
greatly  increased  if  the  globes  are  in  motion, 
and  sliding  over  one  another  ; for  this  soft 
variety  prevents  that  weariness,  which  the 
uniform  disposition  of  the  several  globes 
would  otherwise  produce.  Thus  in  sweet 
liquors,  the  parts  of  the  fluid  vehicle,  though 
most  probably  round,  are  yet  so  minute,  as 
to  conceal  the  figure  of  their  component 
parts  from  the  nicest  inquisition  of  the  micro- 
scope : and  consequently  being  so  excessively 
minute,  they  have  a sort  of  flat  simplicity  to 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


149 


the  taste,  resembling  the  effects  of  plain 
smooth  bodies  to  the  touch  ; for  if  a body  be 
composed  of  round  parts  excessively  small, 
and  packed  pretty  closely  together,  the  sur~ 
face  will  be  both  to  the  sight  and  touch  as  if 
it  were  nearly  plain  and  smooth.  It  is  clear 
from  their  unveiling  their  figure  to  the 
microscope,  that  the  particles  of  sugar  are 
considerably  larger  than  those  of  water  or 
oil,  and  consequently,  that  their  effects  from 
their  roundness  will  be  more  distinct  and 
palpable  to  the  nervous  papillae  of  that  nice 
organ,  the  tongue  : they  will  induce  that 
sense  called  sweetness,  which  in  a weak  man- 
ner we  discover  in  oil,  and  in  a yet  weaker 
in  water  ; for,  insipid  as  they  are,  water 
and  oil  are  in  some  degree  sweet ; and  it  may 
be  observed,  that  insipid  things  of  all  kinds 
approach  more  nearly  to  the  nature  of  sweet 
ness  than  to  that  of  any  other  taste. 

SEC.  XXII.— SWEETNESS  RELAXING. 

In  the  other  senses  we  have  remarked, 
that  smooth  things  are  relaxing.  Now  it 
ought  to  appear  that  sweet  things,  which  are 
the  smooth  of  taste,  are  relaxing  too.  It  is 
remarkable,  that  in  some  languages  soft  and 
sweet  have  but  one  name.  Doux  in  French 
signifies  soft  as  well  as  sweet.  The  Latin 
Dulcis , and  the  Italian  Dolce , have  in  many 
cases  the  same  double  signification.  That 
sweet  things  are  generally  relaxing,  is  evident ; 
because  all  such,  especially  those  which  are 
most  oily,  taken  frequently,  or  in  a large 
quantity,  very  much  enfeeble  the  tone  of  the 
stomach.  Sweet  smells,  which  bear  a great 
affinity  to  sweet  tastes,  relax  very  remark- 
ably. The  smell  of  flowers  disposes  people  to 
drowsiness  ; and  this  relaxing  effect  is  rather 
apparent  from  the  prejudice  which  people  of 


150 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


weak  nerves  receive  from  their  use.  It  were 
worth  while  to  examine,  whether  tastes  of 
this  kind,  sweet  ones,  tastes  that  are  caused 
by  smooth  oils  and  a relaxing  salt,  are  not 
the  originally  pleasant  tastes.  For  many, 
which  use  has  rendered  such,  were  not  at  all 
agreeable  at  first.  The  way  to  examine  this 
is,  to  try  what  nature  has  originally  provided 
for  us,  which  she  has  undoubtedly  made 
originally  pleasant  ; and  to  analyze  this  pro- 
vision. Milk  is  the  first  support  of  our  child- 
hood. The  component  parts  of  this  are  water, 
oil,  and  a sort  of  a very  sweet  salt,  called  the 
sugar  of  milk.  All  these  when  blended  have  a 
great  smoothness  to  the  taste,  and  a relaxing 
quality  to  the  skin.  The  next  thing  children 
covet  is  fruit,  and  of  fruits  those  principally 
which  are  sweet  ; and  every  one  knows  that 
the  sweetness  of  fruit  is  caused  by  a subtle 
oil,  and  such  salt  as  that  mentioned  in  the 
last  section.  Afterwards,  custom,  habit,  the 
desire  of  novelty,  and  a thousand  other 
causes,  confound,  adulterate,  and  change  our 
palates,  so  that  we  can  no  longer  reason  with 
any  satisfaction  about  them.  Before  we  quit 
this  article,  we  must  observe,  that  as  smooth 
things  are,  as  such,  agreeable  to  the  taste, 
and  are  found  of  a relaxing  quality;  so,  on 
the  other  hand,  things  which  are  found  by 
experience  to  be  of  a strengthening  quality, 
and  fit  to  brace  the  fibres,  are  almost  uni- 
versally rough  and  pungent  to  the  taste,  and 
in  many  cases  rough  even  to  the  touch.  We 
often  apply  the  quality  of  sweetness,  met- 
aphorically, to  visual  objects.  For  the  bet- 
ter carrying  on  this  remarkable  analogy  of  the 
senses,  we  may  here  call  sweetness  the  beauti- 
ful of  the  taste. 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


151 


SEC.  XXIII.— VARIATION,  WHY  BEAU- 
TIFUL. 

Another  principal  property  of  beautiful  ob- 
jects is,  that  the  line  of  tbeir  parts  is  continu- 
ally varying  its  direction  ; but  it  varies  it  by 
a very  insensible  deviation  ; it  never  varies 
it  so  quickly  as  to  surprise,  or  by  the  sharp- 
ness of  its  angle  to  cause  any  twitching  or 
convulsion  of  the  optic  nerve.  Nothing  long 
continued  in  the  same  manner,  nothing  very 
suddenly  varied,  can  be  beautiful  ; because 
both  are  opposite  to  that  agreeable  relaxation 
which  is  the  characteristic  effect  of  beauty. 

It  is  thus  in  all  the  senses.  A motion  in  a 
right  line,  is  that  manner  of  moving  next  to 
a very  gentle  descent,  in  which  we  meet  the 
least  resistance  ; yet  it  is  not  that  manner  of 
moving,  which,  next  to  a descent,  wearies  us 
the  least.  Rest  certainly  tends  to  relax : yet 
there  is  a species  of  motion  which  relaxes 
more  than  rest  ; a gentle  oscillatory  motion, 
a rising  and  falling.  Rocking  sets  children 
to  sleep  better  than  absolute  rest ; there  is  in- 
deed scarce  anything  at  that  age,  which  gives 
more  pleasure  than  to  be  gently  lifted  up  and 
down  ; the  manner  of  playing  which  their 
nurses  use  with  children,  and  the  weighing 
and  swinging  used  afterwards  by  themselves 
as  a favorite  amusement,  evince  this  very 
sufficiently.  Most  people  must  have  observed 
the  sort  of  sense  they  have  had  on  being 
swiftly  drawn  in  an  easy  coach  on  a smooth 
turf,  with  gradual  ascents  and  declivities. 
This  will  give  a better  idea  of  the  beautiful, 
and  point  out  its  probable  cause  better,  than 
almost  anything  else.  On  the  contrary  when 
one  is  hurried  over  a rough,  rocky,  broken 
road,  the  pain  felt  by  these  sudden  inequali- 
ties shows  why  similar  sights,  feelings,  and 


152 


ON  TIIE  SUBLIME 


sounds,  are  so  contrary  to  beauty : and  with 
regard  to  the  feeling,  it  is  exactly  the  same  in 
its  effect,  or  very  nearly  the  same,  whether, 
for  instance,  I move  my  hand  along  the  sur- 
face of  a body  of  a certain  shape,  or  whether 
such  a body  is  moved  along  my  hand.  But 
to  bring  this  analogy  of  the  senses  home  to 
the  eye  : if  a body  presented  to  that  sense 
has  such  a waving  surface,  that  the  rays  of 
light  reflected  from  it  are  in  a continual  in- 
sensible deviation  from  the  strongest  to  the 
weakest  (which  is  always  the  case  in  a sur- 
face gradually  unequal),  it  must  be  exactly 
similar  in  its  effects  on  the  eye  and  touch  ; 
upon  the  one  of  which  it  operates  directly,  on 
the  other  indirectly.  And  this  body  will  be 
beautiful  if  the  lines  which  compose  its  sur- 
face are  not  continued,  even  so  varied,  in  a 
manner  that  may  weary  or  dissipate  the  at- 
tention. The  variation  itself  must  be  con- 
tinually varied. 

SEC.  XXIV.—  CONCERNING  SMALLNESS. 

To  avoid  a sameness  which  may  arise  from 
the  too  frequent  repetition  of  the  same  reas- 
onings, and  of  illustrations  of  the  same  na- 
ture, I will  not  enter  very  minutely  into  every 
particular  that  regards  beauty,  as  it  is  founded 
on  the  disposition  of  its  quantity,  or  its  quan- 
tity itself.  In  speaking  of  the  magnitude  of 
bodies  there  is  great  uncertainty  because  the 
ideas  of  great  and  small  are  terms  almost  en- 
tirely relative  to  the  species  of  the  objects, 
which  are  infinite.  It  is  true,  that  having 
once  fixed  the  species  of  any  object,  and  the 
dimensions  common  in  the  individuals  of  that- 
species,  we  may  observe  some  that  exceed, 
and  some  that  fall  short  of,  the  ordinary 
standard  : those  which  greatly  exceed,  are 
by  that  excess,  provided  the  species  itself  be 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


153 


not  very  small,  rather  great  and  terrible  than 
beautiful ; but  as  in  the  animal  world,  and  in 
a good  measure  in  the  vegetable  world  like- 
wise, the  qualities  that  constitute  beauty  may 
possibly  be  united  to  things  of  greater  dimen- 
sions ; when  they  are  so  united,  they  consti- 
tute a species  something  different  both  from 
I the  sublime  and  beautiful,  which  I have  be- 
fore called  Fine;  but  this  kind,  I imagine, 
has  not  such  a power  on  the  passions,  either 
as  vast  bodies  have  which  are  endued  with 
the  correspondent  qualities  of  the  sublime  ; 
or  as  the  qualities  of  beauty  have  when  united 
in  a small  object.  The  affection  produced  by 
large  bodies  adorned  with  the  spoils  of 
beauty,  is  a tension  continually  relieved  ; 
which  approaches  to  the  nature  of  medioc- 
rity. But  if  I were  to  say  how  I find  myself 
affected  upon  such  occasions,  I should  say, 
that  the  sublime  suffers  less  by  being  united 
to  some  of  the  qualities  of  beauty,  than  beauty 
does  by  being  joined  to  greatness  of  quantity, 
or  any  other  properties  of  the  sublime. 
There  is  something  so  over-ruling  in  what- 
ever inspires  us  with  awe,  in  all  things  which 
belong  ever  so  remotely  to  terror,  that  noth- 
ing else  can  stand  in  their  presence.  There 
lie  the  qualities  of  beauty  either  dead  or  un- 
operative ; or  at  most  exerted  to  mollify  the 
rigor  and  sternness  of  the  terror,  which  is 
the  natural  concomitant  of  greatness.  Be- 
sides the  extraordinary  great  in  every  spe- 
cies, the  opposite  to  this,  the  dwarfish  and 
diminutive  ought  to.  be  considered.  Little- 
ness, merely  as  such,  has  nothing  contrary  to 
the  idea  of  beauty.  The  humming-bird,  both 
in  shape  and  coloring,  yields  to  none  of  the 
winged  species,  of  which  he  is  the  least ; and 
perhaps  his  beauty  is  enhanced  by  his  small- 
ness. But  there  are  animals,  which  when 
they  are  extremely  small  are  rarely  (if  ever) 


154 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


beautiful.  There  is  a dwarfish  size  of  men 
and  women,  which  is  almost  constantly  so 
gross  and  massive  in  comparison  of  their 
height,  that  they  present  us  with  a very  dis- 
agreeable image.  But  should  a man  be  found 
not  above  two  or  three  feet  high,  supposing 
such  a person  to  have  all  the  parts  of  his  body 
of  a delicacy  suitable  to  such  a size,  and  other- 
wise endued  with  the  common  qualities  of 
other  beautiful  bodies,  I am  pretty  well  con- 
vinced that  a person  of  such  a stature  might 
be  considered  as  beautiful  ; might  be  the  ob- 
ject of  love ; might  give  us  very  pleasing  ideas 
on  viewing  him.  The  only  thing  which  could 
possibly  interpose  to  check  our  pleasure  is, 
that  such  creatures,  however  formed,  are  un- 
usual, and  are  often  therefore  considered  as 
something  monstrous.  The  large  and  gigan- 
tic, though  very  compatible  with  the  sublime, 
is  contrary  to  the  beautiful.  It  is  impossible 
to  suppose  a giant  the  object  of  love.  When 
we  let  our  imagination  loose  in  romance,  the 
ideas  we  naturally  annex  to  that  size  are 
those  of  tyranny,  cruelty,  injustice,  and  every- 
thing horrid  and  abominable.  We  paint  the 
giant  ravaging  the  country,  plundering  the 
innocent  traveller,  and  afterwards  gorged 
with  his  half-living  flesh:  such  are  Polyphe- 
mus, Cacus,  and  others,  who  make  so  great  a 
figure  in  romances  and  heroic  poems.  The 
event  we  attend  to  with  the  greatest  satisfac- 
tion is  their  defeat  and  death.  I do  not  re- 
member, in  all  that  multitude  of  deaths  with 
which  the  Iliad  is  filled,  that  the  fall  of  any 
man,  remarkable  for  his  great  stature  and 
strength,  touches  us  with  pity;  nor  does  it 
appear  that  the  author,  so  well  read  in  human 
nature,  ever  intended  it  should.  It  is  Simoi- 
sius,  in  the  soft  bloom  of  youth,  torn  from 
his  parents,  who  tremble  for  a courage  so  ill- 
suited  to  his  strength;  it  is  another  hurried 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


155 


by  war  from  the  new  embraces  of  his  bride, 
young  and  fair,  and  a novice  to  the  field,  who 
melts  us  by  his  untimely  fate.  Achilles,  in 
spite  of  the  many  qualities  of  beauty,  which 
Homer  has  bestowed  on  his  outward  form, 
and  the  many  great  virtues  with  wdiich  he 
has  adorned  his  mind,  can  never  make  us 
love  him.  It  may  be  observed,  that  Homer 
has  given  the  Trojans,  whose  fate  he  has  de- 
signed to  excite  our  compassion,  infinitely 
more  of  the  amiable  social  virtues  than  he 
has  distributed  among  his  Greeks.  With  re- 
gard to  the  Trojans,  the  passion  he  chooses  to 
raise  is  pity;  pity  is  a passion  founded  on 
love;  and  these  lesser , and  if  I may  say  do- 
mestic virtues,  are  certainly  the  most  amia- 
ble. But  he  has  made  the  Greeks  far  their 
superiors  in  politic  and  military  virtues.  The 
councils  of  Priam  are  weak;  the  arms  of 
Hector  comparatively  feeble ; his  courage  far 
below  that  of  Achilles.  Yet  we  love  Priam 
more  than  Agamemnon,  and  Hector  more 
than  his  conqueror  Achilles.  Admiration  is 
the  passion  which  Homer  would  excite  in 
favor  of  the  Greeks,  and  he  has  done  it  by 
bestowing  on  them  the  virtues  which  have 
but  little  to  do  with  love.  This  short  digres- 
sion is  perhaps  not  wholly  beside  our  purpose, 
where  our  business  is  to  show  that  objects  of 
great  dimensions  are  incompatible  with  beau- 
ty, the  more  incompatible  as  they  are  greater ; 
whereas  the  small,  if  ever  they  fail  of  beauty, 
this  failure  is  not  to  be  attributed  to  their 
size. 


SEC.  XXV.— OF  COLOR 

With  regard  to  color,  the  disquisition  is  al- 
most infinite;  but  I conceive  the  principles 
laid  down  in  the  beginning  of  this  part  are 
sufficient  to  account  for  the  effects  of  them 


156 


OiV  THE  SUBLIME 


all,  as  well  as  for  the  agreeable  effects  of  trans- 
parent bodies,  fluid  or  solid.  Suppose  I look 
at  a bottle  of  muddy  liquor,  of  a blue  or 
red  color:  the  blue  or  red  rays  cannot  pass 
clearly  to  the  eye,  but  are  suddenly  and  un- 
equally stopped  by  the  intervention  of  little 
opaque  bodies,  which  without  preparation 
change  the  idea,  and  change  it  too  into  one 
disagreeable  in  its  own  nature,  conformable 
to  the  principles  laid  down  in  Sec.  24.  But 
when  the  ray  passes  without  such  opposition 
through  the  glass  or  liquor,  when  the  glass 
or  liquor  are  quite  transparent,  the  light  is 
sometimes  softened  in  the  passage,  which 
makes  it  more  agreeable  even  as  light ; and 
the  liquor  reflecting  all  the  rays  of  its  proper 
color  evenly , it  has  such  an  effect  on  the  eye, 
as  smooth  opaque  bodies  have  on  the  eye  and 
touch.  So  that  the  pleasure  here  is  com- 
pounded of  the  softness  of  the  transmitted 
and  the  evenness  of  the  reflected  light.  This 
pleasure  may  be  heightened  by  the  common 
principles  in  other  things,  if  the  shape  of  the 
glass  which  holds  the  transparent  liquor  be 
so  judiciously  varied,  as  to  present  the  color 
gradually  and  interchangeably,  weakened 
and  strengthened  with  all  the  variety  which 
judgment  in  affairs  of  this  nature  shall  sug- 
gest. On  a review  of  all  that  has  been  said  of 
the  effects,  as  well  as  the  causes  of  both,  it 
will  appear,  that  the  sublime  and  beautiful 
are  built  on  principles  very  different,  and 
that  their  affections  are  as  different:  the 
great  has  terror  for  its  basis ; which,  when  it 
is  modified,  causes  that  emotion  in  the  mind, 
which  I have  called  astonishment ; the  beau- 
tiful is  founded  on  mere  positive  pleasure, 
and  excites  in  the  soul  that  feeling  which  is 
called  love.  Their  causes  have  made  the  sub- 
ject of  this  fourth  part. 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


157 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  AND 

BEAUTIFUL. 


PART  V.— SEC.  I.— OF  WORDS. 

Natural  objects  affect  us,  by  the  laws 
of  that  connection  which  Providence  has 
established  between  certain  motions  and 
configurations  of  bodies,  and  certain  conse- 
quent feelings  in  our  mind.  Painting  affects 
in  the  same  manner,  but  with  the  superadded 
pleasure  of  imitation.  Architecture  affects 
by  the  laws  of  nature,  and  the  law  of  reason ; 
from  which  latter  result  the  rules  of  propor- 
tion, which  make  a work  to  be  praised  or  cen- 
sured, in  the  whole  or  in  some  part,  when  the 
end  for  which  it  was  designed  is  or  is  not  prop- 
erly answered.  But  as  to  words ; they  seem 
to  me  to  affect  us  in  a manner  very  different 
from  that  in  which  we  are  affected  by  natural 
objects,  or  by  painting  or  architecture;  yet 
words  have  as  considerable  a share  in  exciting 
ideas  of  beauty  and  of  the  sublime  as  any . of 
those,  and  sometimes  a much  greater  than  any 
of  them ; therefore  an  inquiry  into  the  manner 
by  which  they  excite  such  emotions  is  far 
from  being  unnecessary  in  a discourse  of  this 
kind. 

SEC.  II.— THE  COMMON  EFFECT  OF 
POETRY,  NOT  BY  RAISING  IDEAS 
OF  THINGS. 

The  notion  of  the  power  of  poetry  and  elo- 
quence, as  well  as  that  of  words  in  ordinary 
conversation,  is,  that  they  affect  the  mind  by 
raising  in  it  ideas  of  those  things  for  which 
custom  has  appointed  them  to  stand.  To  ex- 


158 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


amine  the  truth  of  this  notion,  it  may  be  re- 
quisite to  observe,  that  words  may  be  divided 
into  three  sorts.  The  first  are  such  as  repre- 
sent many  simple  ideas  united  by  nature  to 
form  some  one  determinate  composition,  as 
man,  horse,  tree,  castle,  etc.  These  I call 
aggregate  words.  The  second  are  they  that 
stand  for  one  simple  idea  of  such  composi- 
tions, and  no  more  ; as  red,  blue,  round, 
square,  etc.  These  I call  simple  abstract 
words.  The  third,  are  those  which  are  formed 
by  an  union,  an  arbitrary  union  of  both  the 
others,  and  of  the  various  relations  between 
them  in  greater  or  lesser  degrees  of  complex- 
ity ; as  virtue,  honor,  persuasion,  magistrate, 
and  the  like.  These  I call  compound  abstract 
words.  Words,  I am  sensible,  are  capable  of 
being  classed  into  more  curious  distinctions ; 
but  these  seem  to  be  natural,  and  enough  for 
our  purpose:  and  they  are  disposed  in  that 
order  in  which  they  are  commonly  taught, 
and  in  which  the  mind  gets  the  ideas  they  are 
substituted  for.  I shall  begin  with  the  third 
sort  of  words,  compound  abstracts,  such  as 
virtue,  honor,  persuasion,  docility.  Of  these  I 
am  convinced,  that  whatever  power  they  may 
have  on  the  passions,  they  do  not  derive  it 
from  any  representation  raised  in  the  mind  of 
the  things  for  which  they  stand.  As  compo- 
sitions, they  are  not  real  essences,  and  hardly 
cause,  I think,  any  real  ideas.  Nobody,  I 
believe,  immediately  on  hearing  the  sounds, 
virtue,  liberty,  or  honor,  conceives  any  precise 
notions  of  the  particular  modes  of  action  and 
thinking,  together  with  the  mixt  and  simple 
ideas,  and  the  several  relations  of  them  for 
which  these  words  are  substituted;  neither 
has  he  any  general  idea,  compounded  of  them : 
for  if  he  had,  then  some  of  those  particular 
ones,  though  indistinct  perhaps,  and  confused, 
might  come  soon  to  be  perceived.  But  this,  I 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


159 


take  it,  is  hardly  ever  the  case.  For,  put 
yourself  upon  analyzing  one  of  these  words, 
and  you  must  reduce  it  from  one  set  of  general 
words  to  another,  and  then  into  the  simple 
abstracts  and  aggregates,  in  a much  longer 
series  than  may  be  at  first  imagined,  before 
any  real  idea  emerges  to  light,  before  you 
come  to  discover  anything  like  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  such  compositions;  and  when  you 
have  made  such  a discovery  of  the  original 
ideas,  the  effect  of  the  composition  is  utterly 
lost.  A train  of  thinking  of  this  sort,  is  much 
too  long  to  be  pursued  in  the  ordinary  ways  of 
conversation,  nor  is  it  at  all  necessary  that  it 
should.  Such  words  are  in  reality  but  mere 
sounds ; but  they  are  sounds  which  being  used 
on  particular  occasions,  wherein  we  receive 
some  good,  or  suffer  some  evil ; or  see  others 
affected  with  good  or  evil ; or  which  we  hear 
applied  to  other  interesting  things  or  events ; 
and  being  applied  in  such  a variety  of  cases, 
that  we  know  readily  by  habit  to  what  things 
they  belong,  they  produce  in  the  mind,  when- 
ever they  are  afterwards  mentioned,  effects 
similar  to  those  of  their  occasions.  The 
sounds  being  often  used  without  reference  to 
any  particular  occasion,  and  carrying  still 
their  first  impressions,  they  at  last  utterly  lose 
their  connection  with  the  particular  occasions 
that  give  rise  to  them;  yet  the  sound,  with- 
out any  annexed  notion,  continues  to  operate 
as  before. 

SEC.  III.— GENERAL  WORDS  BEFORE 
IDEAS. 

Mr.  Locke  has  somewhere  observed,  with 
his  usual  sagacity,  that  most  general  words, 
those  belonging  to  virtue  and  vice,  good  and 
evil,  especially,  are  taught  before  the  partic- 
ular modes  of  action  to  which  they  belong  are 


160 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


presented  to  the  mind : and  with  them,  the 
love  of  the  one,  and  the  abhorrence  of  the 
other ; for  the  minds  of  children  are  so  ductile, 
that  a nurse,  or  any  person  about  a child,  by 
seeming  pleased  or  displeased  with  anything, 
or  even  any  word,  may  give  the  disposition  of 
the  child  a similar  turn.  When  afterwards, 
the  several  occurrences  in  life  come  to  be  ap- 
plied to  these  words,  and  that  which  is 
pleasant  often  appears  under  the  name  of  evil ; 
and  what  is  disagreeable  to  nature  is  called 
good  and  virtuous;  a strange  confusion  of 
ideas  and  affections  arises  in  the  minds  of 
many;  and  an  appearance  of  no  small  con- 
tradiction between  their  notions  and  their 
actions.  There  are  many  who  love  virtue  and 
who  detest  vice,  and  this  not  from  hypocrisy 
or  affectation,  who  notwithstanding  very  fre- 
quently act  ill,  and  wickedly  in  particulars 
without  the  least  remorse ; because  these  par- 
ticular occasions  never  came  into  view,  when 
the  passions  on  the  side  of  virtue  were  so 
warmly  affected  by  certain  words  heated  or- 
iginally by  the  breath  of  others ; and  for  this 
reason,  it  is  hard  to  repeat  certain  sets  of 
words,  though  owned  by  themselves  unopera- 
tive, without  being  in  some  degree  affected, 
especially  if  a warm  and  affecting  tone  of  voice 
accompanies  them,  as  suppose, 

Wise,  valiant , generous , good , and  great. 

These  words,  by  having  no  application,  ought 
to  be  unoperative,  but  when  words  commonly 
sacred  to  great  occasions  are  used,  we  are  af- 
fected by  them  even  without  the  occasions. 
When  words  which  have  been  generally  so 
applied  are  put  together  without  any  rational 
view,  or  in  such  a manner  that  they  do  not 
rightly  agree  with  each  other,  the  style  is 
called  bombast.  And  it  requires  in  several 
cases  much  good  sense  and  experience  to  be 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


161 


guarded  against  the  force  of  such  language  ,* 
for  when  propriety  is  neglected,  a greater 
number  of  these  affecting  words  may  be 
taken  into  the  service,  and  a greater  variety 
may  be  indulged  in  combining  them. 

SEC.  IV.—1 THE  EFFECT  OF  WORDS. 

If  words  have  all  their  possible  extent  of 
power,  three  effects  arise  in  the  mind  of  the 
hearer.  The  first  is,  the  sound;  the  second, 
the  picture , or  representation  of  the  thing 
signified  by  the  sound ; the  third  is,  the  affec- 
tion of  the  soul  produced  by  one  or  by  both  of 
the  foregoing.  Compounded  abstract  words, 
of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  (honor,  jus- 
tice, liberty,  and  the  like)  produce  the  first  and 
the  last  of  these  effects,  but  not  the  second. 
Simple  abstracts , are  used  to  signify  some 
one  simple  idea  without  much  adverting  to 
others  which  may  chance  to  attend  it,  as  blue, 
green,  hot,  cold,  and  the  like;  these  are  ca- 
pable of  affecting  all  three  of  the  purposes  of 
words  ; as  the  aggregate  words,  man,  castle, 
horse,  etc. , are  in  a yet  higher  degree.  But  I 
am  of  opinion,  that  the  most  general  affect 
even  of  these  words,  does  not  arise  from  their 
forming  pictures  of  the  several  things  they 
would  represent  in  the  imagination ; because, 
on  a very  diligent  examination  of  my  own 
mind,  and  getting  others  to  consider  theirs, 
I do  not  find  that  once  in  twenty  times  any 
such  picture  is  formed,  and  when  it  is  there 
is  most  commonly  a particular  effort  of  the 
imagination  for  that  purpose.  But  the  ag- 
gregate words  operate,  as  I said  of  the  com- 
pound-abstracts, not  by  presenting  any  image 
to  the  mind,  but  by  having  from  use  the  same 
effect  on  being  mentioned,  that  their  original 
has  when  it  is  seen.  Suppose  we  were  to  rea  d 
a passage  to  this  effect:  “The  river  Danube 


162 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


rises  in  a moist  and  mountainous  soil  in  the 
heart  of  Germany,  where  winding  to  and  fro, 
it  waters  several  principalities,  until,  turning 
into  Austria,  and  leaving  the  walls  of  Vienna, 
it  passes  into  Hungary  ; there  with  a vast 
flood,  augmented  by  the  Saave  and  the  Drave,  ^ 
it  quits  Christendom,  and  rolling  through  the 
barbarous  countries  which  border  on  Tartary, 
it  enters  by  many  mouths  in  the  Black  Sea.” 
In  this  description  many  things  are  men- 
tioned, as  mountains,  rivers,  cities,  the  sea, 
etc.  But  let  anybody  examine  himself,  and 
see  whether  he  has  had  impressed  on  his  im- 
agination any  picture  of  a river,  mountain, 
watery  soil,  Germany,  etc.  Indeed  it  is  im- 
possible, in  the  rapidity  and  quick  succession 
of  words  in  conversation,  to  have  ideas  both 
of  the  sound  of  the  word,  and  of  the  thing  rep- 
resented ; besides,  some  words,  expressing 
real  essences,  are  so  mixed  with  others  of  a 
general  and  nominal  import,  that  it  is  im- 
practicable to  jump  from  sense  to  thought, 
from  particulars  to  generals,  from  things  to 
words,  in  such  a manner  as  to  answer  the 
purposes  of  life ; nor  is  it  necessary  that  we 
should. 

SEC.  V.  — EXAMPLES  THAT  WORDS 
MAY  AFEECT  WITHOUT  RAISING 
IMAGES. 

It  is  very  hard  to  persuade  several  that 
their  passions  are  affected  by  words  from 
whence  they  have  no  ideas,  and  yet  harder  to 
convince  them,  that  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  conversation  we  are  sufficiently  under- 
stood without  raising  any  images  of  the  things 
concerning  which  we  speak.  It  seems  to  be 
an  odd  subject  of  dispute  with  any  man, 
whether  he  has  ideas  in  his  mind  or  not.  Of 
this,  at  first  view,  every  man  in  his  own 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


163 


forum,  ought  to  judge  without  appeal.  But, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  we  are  often  at  a 
loss  to  know  what  ideas  we  have  of  things, 
or  whether  we  have  any  ideas  at  all  upon 
some  subjects.  It  even  requires  a good  deal 
of  attention  to  be  thoroughly  satisfied  on  this 
head.  Since  I wrote  these  papers,  I found 
two  very  striking  instances  of  the  possibility 
there  is,  that  a man  may  hear  words  without 
having  any  idea  of  the  things  which  they  rep- 
resent, and  yet  afterwards  be  capable  of  re- 
turning them  to  others,  combined  in  a new 
way,  and  with  great  propriety,  energy,  and 
instruction.  The  first  instance  is  that  of  Mr. 
Blacklock,  a poet  blind  from  his  birth.  Few 
men  blessed  with  the  most  perfect  sight  can 
describe  visual  objects  with  more  spirit  and 
justness  than  this  blind  man;  which  cannot 
possibly  be  attributed  to  his  having  a clearer 
conception  of  the  things  he  describes  than  is 
common  to  other  persons.  Mr.  Spence,  in  an 
elegant  preface  which  he  has  written  to  the 
works  of  this  poet,  reasons  very  ingeniously, 
and,  I imagine,  for  the  most  part  very  rightly, 
upon  the  cause  of  this  extraordinary  phenom- 
enon ; but  I cannot  altogether  agree  with  him, 
that  some  improprieties  in  language  and 
thought,  which  occur  in  these  poems,  have 
arisen  from  the  blind  poet’s  imperfect  con- 
ception of  visual  objects,  since  such  impro- 
prieties, and  much  greater,  may  be  found 
in  writers  even  of  an  higher  class  than 
Mr.  Blacklock,  and  who  notwithstanding  pos- 
sessed the  faculty  of  seeing  in  its  full  per- 
fection. Here  is  a poet  doubtless  as  much  af- 
fected by  his  own  descriptions  as  any  that 
reads  them  can  be ; and  yet  he  is  affected  with 
this  strong  enthusiasm  by  things  of  which  he 
neither  has,  nor  can  possibly  have  any  idea 
further  than  that  of  a bare  sound ; and  why 
may  not  those  who  read  his  works  be  affected 


104 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


in  the  same  manner  that  he  was ; with  as  little 
of  any  real  ideas  of  the  things  described  ? The 
second  instance  is  of  Mr.  Saunderson,  profes- 
sor of  mathematics  in  the  university  of  Cam- 
bridge. This  learned  man  had  acquired  great 
knowledge  in  natural  philosophy,  in  astron- 
omy, and  whatever  sciences  depend  upon 
mathematical  skill.  What  was  the  most  ex- 
traordinary and  the  most  to  my  purpose,  he 
gave  excellent  lectures  upon  light  and  colors ; 
and  this  man  taught  others  the  theory  of 
those  ideas  which  they  had,  and  which  he 
himself  undoubtedly  had  not.  But  it  is  prob- 
able that  the  words  red,  blue,  green,  an- 
swered to  him  as  well  as  the  ideas  of  the  col- 
ors themselves;  for  the  ideas  of  greater  or 
lesser  degrees  of  refrangibility  being  applied 
to  these  words,  and  the  blind  man  being  in- 
structed in  what  other  respects  they  were 
found  to  agree  or  to  disagree,  it  was  as  easy 
for  him  to  reason  upon  the  words,  as  if  he  had 
been  fully  master  of  the  ideas.  Indeed  it 
must  be  owned  he  could  make  no  new  dis- 
coveries in  the  way  of  experiment.  Me  did 
nothing  but  what  we  do  every  day  in  com- 
mon discourse.  When  I wrote  this  last  sen- 
tence, and  used  the  words  every  day  and  com- 
mon discourse , I had  no  images  in  my  mind 
of  any  succession  of  time ; nor  of  men  in  con- 
ference with  each  other;  nor  do  I imagine 
that  the  reader  will  have  any  such  ideas  on 
reading  it.  Neither  when  I spoke  of  red,  or 
blue  and  green,  as  well  as  refrangibility,  had 
I these  several  colors  or  the  rays  of  light  pass- 
ing into  a different  medium  and  there  diverted 
from  their  course,  painted  before  me  in  the 
way  of  images.  I know  very  well  that  the 
mind  possesses  a faculty  of  raising  such  im- 
ages at  pleasure ; but  then  an  act  of  the  will 
is  necessary  to  this ; and  in  ordinary  conver- 
sation or  reading  it  is  very  rarely  that  any 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


165 


image  at  all  is  excited  in  the  mind.  If  I say 
“ I shall  go  to  Italy  next  summer;”  I am  well 
understood.  Yet  I believe  nobody  has  by  this 
painted  in  his  imagination  the  exact  figure 
of  the  speaker  passing  by  land  or  by  water, 
or  both ; sometimes  on  horseback,  sometimes 
in  a carriage ; with  all  the  particulars  of  the 
journey.  Still  less  has  he  any  idea  of  Italy, 
the  country  to  which  I proposed  to  go ; or  of 
the  greenness  of  the  fields,  the  ripening  of  the 
fruits,  and  the  warmth  of  the  air,  with  the 
change  to  this  from  a different  season,  which 
are  the  ideas  for  which  the  word  summer  is 
substituted ; but  least  of  all  has  he  any  image 
from  the  word  next;  for  this  word  stands  for 
the  idea  of  many  summers  with  the  exclusion 
of  all  but  one ; and  surely  the  man  who  says 
next  summer , has  no  images  of  such  a suc- 
cession, and  such  an  exclusion.  In  short,  it 
is  not  only  of  those  ideas  which  are  commonly 
called  abstract,  and  of  which  no  image  at  all 
can  be  formed,  but  even  of  particular  real 
beings,  that  we  converse  without  having  any 
idea  of  them  excited  in  the  imagination ; as 
will  certainly  appear  on  a diligent  exami- 
nation of  our  own  minds.  Indeed,  so  little 
does  poetry  depend  for  its  effect  on  the  power 
of  raising  sensible  images,  that  I am  convinced 
it  would  lose  a very  considerable  part  of  its 
energy  if  this  were  the  necessary  result  of  all 
description.  Because  that  union  of  affecting 
words,  which  is  the  most  powerful  of  all  poet- 
ical instruments,  would  frequently  lose  its 
force  along  with  its  propriety  and  consistency, 
if  the  sensible  images  were  always  excited. 
There  is  not  perhaps  in  the  whole  Eneid  a 
more  grand  and  labored  passage  than  the  de- 
scription of  Vulcan’s  cavern  in  Etna,  and  the 
works  that  are  there  carried  on.  Virgil 
dwells  particularly  on  the  formation  of  the 
thunder,  which  he  describes  unfinished  under 


166 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


the  hammers  of  the  Cyclops.  But  what  are 
the  principles  of  this  extraordinary  compo- 
sition? 

Tres  imbris  torti  radios , tres  nubis  acquosce 
Addiderant ; rutili  tres  ignis  et  alitis  austri; 
Fulgores  nunc  terrificos,  sonitumque , metumque 
Miscebant  operi,  slammisque  sequacibus  iras. 

This  seems  to  me  admirably  sublime ; yet  if 
we  attend  coolly  to  the  kind  of  sensible  images 
which  a combination  of  ideas  of  this  sort  must 
form,  the  chimeras  of  madmen  cannot  appear 
more  wild  and  absurd  than  such  a picture. 
“ three  rays  of  twisted  showers , three  of  watery 
clouds , three  of  fire , and  three  of  the  winged 
south  winds;  then  mixed  they  in  the  work  ter- 
rific lightnings , and  sound  and  fear , and  an- 
ger, with  pursuing  flames.  ” This  strange  com- 
position is  formed  into  a gross  body ; it  is 
hammered  by  the  Cyclops,  it  is  in  part  pol- 
ished, and  partly  continues  rough.  The  truth 
is,  if  poetry  gives  us  a noble  assemblage  of 
words  corresponding  to  many  noble  ideas, 
which  are  connected  by  circumstances  of  time 
or  place,  or  related  to  each  other  as  cause  and 
effect,  or  associated  in  any  natural  way,  they 
may  be  moulded  together  in  any  form,  and 
perfectly  answer  their  end.  The  picturesque 
connection  is  not  demanded ; because  no  real 
picture  is  formed ; nor  is  the  effect  of  the  de- 
scription at  all  the  less  upon  this  account. 
What  is  said  of  Helen  by  Priam  and  the  old 
men  of  his  council,  is  generally  thought  to 
give  us  the  highest  possible  idea  of  that  fatal 
beauty. 

They  cry'd,  no  wonder  such  celestial  charms 
For  nine  long  years  have  set  the  world  in  arms ; 

What  winning  graces  ! what  majestic  mien  / 

She  moves  a goddess , and  she  looks  a queen. — Pope. 

Here  is  not  one  word  said  of  the  particulars 
of  her  beauty ; nothing  which  can  in  the  least 
help  us  to  any  precise  idea  of  her  person ; but 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


167 


yet  we  are  much  more  touched  by  this  man- 
ner of  mentioning  her  than  by  those  long  and 
labored  descriptions  of  Helen,  whether  hand- 
ed down  by  tradition,  or  formed  by  fancy, 
which  are  to  be  met  with  in  some  authors.  I 
am  sure  it  affects  me  much  more  than  the 
minute  description  which  Spenser  has  given 
of  Belphebe;  though  I own  that  there  are 
parts  in  that  description,  as  there  are  in  all 
the  descriptions  of  that  excellent  writer,  ex- 
tremely fine  and  poetical.  The  terrible  pict- 
ure which  Lucretius  has  drawn  of  religion, 
in  order  to  display  the  magnanimity  of  his 
philosophical  hero  in  opposing  her,  is  thought 
to  be  designed  with  great  boldness  and  spirit : 

Humana  ante  oculos  foede  cum  vita  jaceret, 

In  terris  oppressa  gravi  sub  religione, 

Quae  caput  e cceli  regionibus  ostendebat 
Horribili  super  aspectu  mortalibus  instans; 

Primus  Graius  homo  mortales  tollere  contra 
Est  oculos  ausus. 

What  idea  do  you  derive  from  so  excellent  a 
picture?  none  at  all,  most  certainly,  neither 
has  the  poet  said  a single  word  which  might 
in  the  least  serve  to  mark  a single  limb  or 
feature  of  the  phantom,  which  he  intended  to 
represent  in  all  the  horrors  imagination  can 
conceive.  In  reality,  poetry  and  rhetoric  do 
not  succeed  in  exact  description  so  well  as 
painting  does ; their  business  is,  to  affect  rath- 
er by  sympathy  than  imitation;  to  display 
rather  the  effect  of  things  on  the  mind  of  the 
speaker,  or  of  others,  than  to  present  a clear 
idea  of  the  things  themselves.  This  is  their 
most  extensive  province,  and  that  in  which 
they  succeed  the  best. 


168 


ON  THE  SUBLIME 


SEC.  VI.—  POETRY  NOT  STRICTLY  AN 
IMITATIVE  ART. 

Hence  we  may  observe  that  poetry,  taken 
in  its  most  general  sense,  cannot  with  strict 
propriety  be  called  an  art  of  imitation.  It  is 
indeed  an  imitation  so  far  as  it  describes  the 
manners  and  passions  of  men  which  their 
words  can  express ; where  animi  motus  effert 
interprete  lingua . There  it  is  strictly  imita- 
tion ; and  all  merely  dramatic  poetry  is  of  this 
sort.  But  descriptive  poetry  operates  chiefly 
by  substitution , by  means  of  sounds,  which 
by  custom  have  the  effect  of  realities.  Noth- 
ing is  an  imitation  further  than  as  it  resembles 
some  other  thing;  and  words  undoubtedly 
have  no  sort  of  resemblance  to  the  ideas  for 
which  they  stand. 


SEC.  VII. —HOW  WORDS  INFLUENCE 
THE  PASSIONS. 

Now,  as  words  affect,  not  by  any  original 
power,  but  by  representation,  it  might  be  sup- 
posed, that  their  influence  over  the  passions 
should  be  but  light ; yet  it  is  quite  otherwise ; 
for  we  find  by  experience  that  eloquence  and 
poetry  are  as  capable,  nay  indeed  much  more 
capable,  of  making  deep  and  lively  impres- 
sions than  any  other  arts,  and  even  than  na- 
ture itself,  in  very  many  cases.  And  this 
arises  chiefly  from  these  three  causes.  First, 
that  we  take  an  extraordinary  part  in  the 
passions  of  others,  and  that  we  are  easily  af- 
fected and  brought  into  sympathy  by  any 
tokens  which  are  shown  of  them ; and  there 
are  no  tokens  which  can  express  all  the  cir- 
cumstances of  most  passions  so  fully  as  words ; 
so  that  if  a person  speaks  upon  any  subject, 


AND  BEAUTIFUL. 


169 


he  cannot  only  convey  the  subject  to  you, 
but  likewise  the  manner  in  which  he  is  him- 
self affected  by  it.  Certain  it  is,  that  the  in- 
fluence of  most  things  on  our  passions  is  not 
so  much  from  the  things  themselves,  as  from 
our  opinions  concerning  them ; and  these  again 
depend  very  much  on  the  opinions  of  other 
men,  conveyable  for  the  most  part  by  words 
only.  Secondly  there  are  many  things  of  a 
very  affecting  nature,  which  can  seldom  oc- 
cur in  the  reality,  but  the  words  which  rep- 
resent them  often  do;  and  thus  they  have 
an  opportunity  of  making  a deep  impression 
and  taking  root  in  the  mind,  whilst  the  idea 
of  the  reality  was  transient ; and  to  some  per- 
haps never  really  occurred  in  any  shape,  to 
whom  it  is  notwithstanding  very  affecting,  as 
war,  death,  famine,  etc.  Besides  many  ideas 
have  never  been  at  all  presented  to  the  senses 
of  any  men  but  by  words,  as  G-od,  angels, 
devils,  heaven,  and  hell,  all  of  which  have 
however  a great  influence  over  the  passions. 
Thirdly,  by  words  we  have  it  in  our  power  to 
make  such  combinations  as  we  cannot  possibly 
do  otherwise.  By  this  power  of  combining 
we  are  able,  by  the  addition  of  well-chosen 
circumstances,  to  give  a new  life  and  force 
to  the  simple  object.  In  painting  we  may  rep- 
resent any  fine  figure  we  please ; but  we  nev- 
er can  give  it  those  enlivening  touches  which 
it  may  receive  from  words.  To  represent  an 
angel  in  a picture,  you  can  only  draw  a beauti- 
ful young  man  winged:  but  what  painting 
can  furnish  anything  so  grand  as  the  addition 
of  one  word,  “the  angel  of  the  Lordt  ” It  is 
true,  I have  here  no  clear  idea;  but  these 
words  affect  the  mind  more  than  the  sensible 
image  did ; which  is  all  I contend  for.  A pict- 
ure of  Priam  dragged  to  the  altar’s  foot,  and 
there  murdered,  if  it  were  well  executed, 
would  undoubtedly  be  very  moving ; but  there 


170 


ON  TEE  SUBLIME 


are  very  aggravating  circumstances,  which 
it  could  never  represent : 

Sanguine  fcedantem  quos  ipse  sacraverat  ignes. 

As  a further  instance,  let  us  consider  those 
lines  of  Milton,  where  he  describes  the  travels 
of  the  fallen  angels  through  their  dismal 
habitation : 

O'er  many  a dark  and  dreary  vale 

They  pass'd , and  many  a region  dolorous;  >. 

O'er  many  a frozen,  many  a fiery  Alp; 

Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  fens , bogs,  dens,  and  shades  of  death , 

A universe  of  death. 

Here  is  displayed  the  force  of  union  in 

Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  dens,  bogs,  fens,  and  shades; 

which  yet  would  lose  the  greatest  part  of  the 
effect,  if  they  were  not  the 

Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  dens,  bogs,  fens,  and  shades of  Death. 

This  idea  or  this  affection  caused  by  a word, 
which  nothing  but  a word  could  annex  to  the 
others,  raises  a very  great  degree  of  the  sub- 
lime ; and  this  sublime  is  raised  yet  higher  by 
what  follows,  a “ universe  of  Death.”  Here 
are  again  two  ideas  not  presentable  but  by 
language;  and  an  union  of  them  great  and 
amazing  beyond  conception ; if  they  may  prop- 
erly be  called  ideas  which  present  no  distinct 
image  to  the  mind ; — but  still  it  will  be  difficult 
to  conceive  how  words  can  move  the  passions 
which  belong  to  real  objects,  without  repre- 
senting these  objects  clearly.  This  is  diffi- 
cult to  us,  because  we  do  not  sufficiently  dis- 
tinguish, in  our  observations  upon  language, 
between  a clear  expression,  and  a strong  ex- 
pression. These  are  frequently  confounded 
with  each  other,  though  they  are  in  reality 
extremely  different.  The  former  regards  the 
understanding ; the  latter  belongs  to  the  pas- 
sions. The  one  describes  a thing  as  it  is; 
the  latter  describes  it  as  it  is  felt.  Now,  as 


AND  BEAUTIFUL . 


171 


there  is  a moving  tone  of  voice,  an  impas- 
sioned countenance,  an  agitated  gesture, 
which  affect  independently  of  the  things 
about  which  they  are  exerted,  so  there  are 
words,  and  certain  dispositions  of  words, 
which  being  peculiarly  devoted  to  passionate 
subjects,  and  always  used  by  those  who  are 
under  the  influence  of  any  passion,  touch  and 
move  us  more  than  those  which  far  more 
clearly  and  distinctly  express  the  subject 
matter.  We  yield  to  sympathy  what  we  re- 
fuse to  description.  The  truth  is,  all  verbal 
description,  merely  as  naked  description, 
though  never  so  exact,  conveys  so  poor  and 
insufficient  an  idea  of  the  thing  described, 
that  it  could  scarcely  have  the  smallest  effect, 
if  the  speaker  did  not  call  in  to  his  aid  those 
modes  of  speech  that  mark  a strong  and  live- 
ly feeling  in  himself.  Then,  by  the  contagion 
of  our  passions,  we  catch  a fire  already  kin- 
dled in  another,  which  probably  might  never 
have  been  struck  out  by  the  object  described. 
Words,  by  strongly  conveying  the  passions, 
by  those  means  which  we  haVe  already  men- 
tioned, fully  compensate  for  their  weakness 
in  other  respects.  It  may  be  observed,  that 
very  polished  languages,  and  such  as  are 
praised  for  their  superior  clearness  and  per- 
spicuity, are  generally  deficient  in  strength. 
The  French  language  has  that  perfection  and 
that  defect.  Whereas  the  Oriental  tongues, 
and  in  general  the  languages  of  most  un- 
polished people,  have  a great  force  and  energy 
of  expression ; and  this  is  but  natural.  Un- 
cultivated people  are  but  ordinary  observers 
of  things,  and  not  critical  in  distinguishing 
them ; but,  for  that  reason,  they  admire  more, 
and  are  more  affected  with  what  they  see, 
and  therefore  express  themselves  in  a warmer 
and  more  passionate  manner.  If  the  affection 
be  well  conveyed,  it  will  work  its  effect  with- 


172  ON  THE  SUBLIME  AND  BE  A UTIFUL. 


out  any  clear  idea ; often  without  any  idea  at 
all  of  the  thing  which  has  originally  given 
rise  to  it. 

It  might  be  expected  from  the  fertility  of 
the  subject,  that  I should  consider  poetry  as 
it  regards  the  sublime  and  beautiful,  more  at 
large;  but  it  must  be  observed  that  in  this 
light  it  has  been  often  and  well  handled  al- 
ready. It  was  not  my  design  to  enter  into 
the  criticism  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful  in 
any  art,  but  to  attempt  to  lay  down  such 
principles  as  may  tend  to  ascertain,  to  dis- 
tinguish, and  to  form  a sort  of  standard  for 
them;  which  purposes  I thought  might  be 
best  effected  by  an  inquiry  into  the  properties 
of  such  things  in  nature,  as  raise  love  and  as- 
tonishment in  us;  and  by  showing  in  what 
manner  they  operated  to  produce  these  pas- 
sions. Words  were  only  so  far  to  be  con- 
sidered, as  to  show  upon  what  principle  they 
were  capable  of  being  the  representatives  of 
these  natural  things,  and  by  what  powers 
they  were  able  to  affect  us  often  as  strongly 
as  the  things  they  represent,  and  sometimes 
much  more  strongly. 


